Identity Crisis
by usa123
Summary: When a covert op goes awry, Steve barely makes it out alive. A few days later, he discovers he is not healing as quickly as he usually does, leaving him wondering if there is a problem with the serum. Meanwhile, S.H.I.E.L.D. learns the target of Steve's original mission is looking for revenge. No slash, no ships.
1. Chapter 1

**Happy New Year!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.**

* * *

Missions are fickle little bastards. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much time or energy you invest in organizing every detail or mapping every possible escape route; all it takes is one person to notice your presence in a covert op and, instead of popping open a bottle of champagne on a flight home, you're running for your life.

Which is where Steve Rogers was now.

Well, to call it 'running' was a bit of a stretch. It was more of a "step-hop, step-skip" as he tried to avoid putting weight on his injured left leg. His hip was throbbing and waves of fire were radiating from the joint which was resisting even the smallest of movements. Having his motorcycle knocked out from under him by a small army—that turned out to be not so small, by the way—and sliding a good ten feet under said bike until the vehicle ground to a halt probably had something to do with that. Add to that the shoulder he had dislocated in the middle of this supposedly simple extraction, plus the bruised ribs, and anyone could conclude that this mission was going pear-shaped. Fast.

"What's your position Rogers?"

Steve blinked in shock, still not used to the concept of the comm device in his ear. He rounded a corner and was greeted by a dark alley that housed dilapidated stores and businesses. There was not a person in sight. In a cul-de-sac at the far end of the street sat a small quinjet—his ride home.

"200 yards." At his current speed though, it might as well have been a mile.

In the distance, he heard multiple motorcycles rev to life. He bit back a groan and focused on moving toward his extraction point.

"Coming in hot," he ground out through tightly gritted teeth.

The motorcycles were getting closer, he knew, as he began to hear the battle cries of the riders. They turned the corner of the long, abandoned street while Steve was still over 100 yards from the jet.

Drawing from the depleted depths of Captain America's endurance, Steve managed to kick it up a small notch, moving faster than anyone in his condition should have. Pain burst through the strained muscles of his shoulder and he pressed his left arm tightly against his ribs, his hand clutching his right elbow in an attempt to keep the joint immobile as he hobbled along.

"I'm going to need…a little help…" he gasped as he veered towards the cover of an abandoned office building.

"On it!" a young voice—the pilot of the S.H.I.E.L.D. issue quinjet—replied, sounding surprisingly enthusiastic about being asked to assist.

There was no time to worry about that now. He had to focus.

Step-hop. Step-skip. He could do this.

The motorcycles were right behind him now. He risked a glance left and saw the leader pull his weapon and aim it directly at Steve's head.

"Sooner would be better!" the soldier hissed.

"Ready to die, fool?" The leader questioned through a heavy smirk. With his heightened vision, Steve saw the slight tightening of the man's finger on the trigger and, knowing not even he could dodge a bullet at this range, starting reciting one of the prayers his mother had taught him.

His invocation was interrupted by a crisp, "Hit the deck, Captain!"

The kid couldn't really mean…Was he serious?

Then Steve heard the ominous click of a trigger and loud whistling. His military training combined with heavy doses of self-preservation kicked in and he threw himself to the ground. Ignoring the newly ignited pain coursing through his body, he pulled his limbs close and covered his head with his working arm.

A brilliant blue blast of energy pulsed over his head and, for a split second, Steve wasn't sure if the light was actually there or if his sleep-deprived mind was deluding him. But then, the wave washed over the bikes and the motorcycles appeared to just…stop working. Engines instantly quit, sending the bikes crashing into each other, while the riders were thrown from their seats, propelled forward by their momentum.

Taking advantage of the chaos, without completely understanding what just happened, Steve slapped the side of the building in search of a handhold. Tightly gripping a protruding window ledge, he managed to haul himself to his feet.

He staggered toward the small aircraft where the pilot was disassembling what looked like a portable canon with practiced efficiency. The kid chucked the case into the passenger bay, climbed into the cockpit and started flipping switches on the dashboard causing the propellers to slowly begin spinning, picking up speed until the jet was vibrating with built-up energy.

A bullet whistled high over Steve's shoulder, forcing him to grab for his own weapon, ignoring the strain on his battered body. Before he could return fire, he heard a loud whistling coming from the opposite direction and saw a trail of smoke leaving the front of the quinjet travelling toward the smoking motorcycles. A metal canister rolled into view for a split second giving Steve the opportunity to duck his head before a cacophonous roar ripped through the air.

It took everything he had left to remain standing as the shockwave barreled past him. When the air had settled, he risked a small glance over his shoulder and saw waves of thick smoke rolling from the canister, obscuring his view of the crash site.

"C'mon Captain!" the pilot yelled.

Steve scowled—not that the boy could see—and concentrated so intently, black spots began flashing in his vision.

Step-hop.

Step-skip.

Step-hop.

He reached the handrails of the ramp and clung to them like a drowning man holding a life preserver. He used his left side to lever some of the weight away from his leg and hopped awkwardly up all six steps.

He collapsed into the first seat he saw, almost moaning in relief as his body met the soft cloth seat. He weakly lifted one hand and waved his index finger in a circle.

"Yessir Captain!" the young pilot saluted before turning back to the controls. "You might want to put on your seatbelt!" he called over his shoulder as he pushed the thrusters to full throttle.

Steve fumbled with the two metal buckles with his left arm, squinting as they danced around his field of vision. He finally managed to click them together just before the plane took off.

"Did you get it?" a voice asked directly next to him. Steve didn't even have the energy to be startled.

To drained to speak, he lowered his head onto his chest, in what he hoped would be interpreted as a nod. He reached a shaking hand down the front of his armor and withdrew a small brown envelope.

The package was roughly pulled from his grasp and his hand fell back against his chest on its own accord. After what felt like hours, the man nodded his approval…or, at least, Steve thought he did. It was getting kinda hard to tell with his vision rapidly blurring.

He felt hands on his right shoulder and couldn't even pull away when the pain ratcheted up another notch.

Someone was talking to him, saying something about him knowing they had to do this now or else…Yeah, he knew. He managed to lift his head a little and forced his arm to relax, knowing what was coming next.

Three…Someone yanked on his arm and he heard a stifled cry of pain—that wasn't him, was it?—then a loud pop.

He bit down hard, his teeth tearing through his bottom lip, as the humeral head slipped back into its socket. He barely managed to suppress a moan as fire tore down his arm, leaving the awkward sensation of pins and needles in its place.

Then the hands were gone. He heard footsteps, couldn't tell in what direction they were headed, close or far, it didn't matter.

He'd completed the mission, made it to the extraction point. His shoulder set and New York many, many miles away, Steve relaxed into the extremely soft seat, unconscious before his head hit the headrest.

* * *

There was a soft hand on his uninjured shoulder.

_No,_ Steve groaned. _They weren't in Brooklyn already! The plane had just taken off._

"Captain Rogers….sir," the voice continued, relentless yet gentle. "We're here."

With great effort, Steve cracked open one eye to see the pilot crouching next to him, his face creased with concern.

"Oh good," the young man breathed. "I was getting worried when you didn't wake up."

Steve just nodded, his eyes closing into slits. He shifted in his seat for a moment, trying to figure out the least painful way to stand up. Finally, he gripped the armrests tightly, inhaled deeply and gathered his remaining strength.

"Here," the pilot, who magically appeared on his left, leaned down and wrapped his one arm around the soldier's upper chest, sliding Steve's shoulder over his own. "Let me help you."

"Uh huh," was all Steve could manage.

It took a monumental effort from both of them to get the super soldier upright. While the kid held him steady, Rogers gripped the seatback, his knuckles ghostly white, until the room stopped shaking.

He took one step forward and felt his knees give slightly. His arms flailed wildly, trying to grab anything to keep himself from falling. One arm smacked into flesh and, suddenly, there were arms around him again, holding him steady. The pilot tightened his grip and led Steve to the small arched doorway.

Even in his semi-conscious state, Steve knew there was no way the two of them could fit through that tiny arch at the same time so he slid out from pilot's grasp, clinging tightly to the handrails. Once he was out of the shadow of the jet, the wind picked up, driving tendrils of ice into his abused system and causing him to sway languidly on the metal staircase. The strength of the gust caused his ribs to ache with a renewed vigor and he was forced to sacrifice half of his grip on the railing in order to support his torso.

Maintaining his balance with just one hand, he squinted at the metal stairs and carefully lowered himself from step to step until he was back on the cement ground. He continued focusing on the ground until he was safely propped against the staircase, at which point, he allowed himself to take stock of his surroundings. He stared over the small railing and was stunned by the breathtaking view of New York City. He knew of only one place with a view this magnificent, meaning he was currently standing on the roof of Stark Tower (or Avengers' Tower. The name changed depending on to whom you spoke).

Without taking his eyes off the city skyline, he heard the kid lightly bound down the stairs and take his place by Steve's side once again. "To the elevator?" he asked.

"Mister Jones!" a voice boomed from inside the plane.

Jones' face soured. He glanced back into the cabin before fixing Steve with a second look of great concern.

"I…"

Steve understood. No need for the kid to get fired on his behalf. He slipped out of the kid's grip, forcing himself to stand upright.

"G'on. I got'his."

The kid's eyebrows furrowed. "I can't. You need help."

"JONES!" the voice called again, this time more insistent.

Steve tilted his head to the right. "G'on, kid."

The pilot was still hesitant. "I'm so sorry Captain Rogers."

"'ll be fine," Steve managed, releasing his grip on the ramp's handrail and wavering slightly.

The kid shot him one last look, expressing his displeasure at having to leave, but he obediently hopped into the plane and pulled up the ramp.

"It was a pleasure working with you, Captain!" he called from the cockpit as he prepared for departure.

Steve watched the plane take off before fixing his gaze on the elevators in the middle of the expansive roof. Being left at Stark Tower wasn't ideal since he would rather sleep off his injuries at his own apartment in Brooklyn before being reunited with the rest of the Avengers.

Right now, though, it was his only option.

He inhaled, gathering his remaining strength, and headed off. Though he easily fell back into his step-hop, step-skip routine, his short nap on the plane appeared to have exhausted him more than it had rejuvenated him. Steve had never been more grateful Tony had given the entire team access to his tower—for emergencies, he had said. But the Avengers had read between the lines: they knew they were welcome anytime.

Regardless, if Stark was going to split hairs over the matter, he was sure this qualified.

He wobbled up to the steel doors and palmed the touch screen located beside them. Scanners ran up and down his hand, reading for heat signature and comparing his fingerprints. After a long moment, the screen flashed green and the doors he had been leaning against opened, nearly dumping him on the shiny metal floor.

He lurched forward and crashed into the far wall, locating the grab bar and barely managing to hold himself upright. The captain gauged the distance from his current location to the door, all the while knowing it was too far. Leaning heavily against the wall, he tilted his head upwards.

"JARV'S?" he slurred.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" He twitched slightly as the loud British tone resonated through the small elevator. Though he had been expecting it, he still wasn't comfortable with the AI's omnipotence and was continually surprised with the speed at which it responded. At the moment though, he knew using JARVIS was the only way to get to an unoccupied floor.

"Thirty-four…pl'se." An empty floor with a guest room, Steve recalled from one of his first visits.

"As you wish." Gears whirred and the car began its descent.

"If I may ask, sir, are you well?"

Steve flicked his hand in an attempt to wave away the AI. "Jus' need…some sleep…"

With a chirp, the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. "Floor 34 sir. Should I alert the others to your arrival?"

"No!" Steve shouted, doubling over in agony as his ribcage contracted painfully with the force of his exclamation.

"Sir, I believe you require medical attention."

"I n'd sleep." Still hunched over, he stumbled toward the opening doors.

There was a beat of silence. "If you believe that is best, Captain Rogers."

Steve didn't bother to respond.

He made it into the bed seconds before his knees gave out. He lay there, breathing hard, too exhausted to pull off his dirty, bloody uniform. Guilt twinged in his belly for a split second, knowing Tony Stark didn't buy anything inexpensive, but the overwhelming need to sleep was too overpowering. He'd buy a new set of sheets for the inventor when he woke up.

His head landed on the incredibly soft pillow and he almost allowed himself to drift off to sleep. At the last second, he snapped back to awareness, knowing there was one matter he had yet to take care of. "JARV'S?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"'m not here." If anyone in the Tower knew he had returned, he wouldn't be allowed to rest without first being dragged to SHIELD's on-call physicians. By the time a proper evaluation was completed, most of his wounds would already be healed, making the trip completely unnecessary. He had been in the field long enough to know when one of his injuries required serious medical attention. With the exception of his shoulder which had already been reduced, he had attained only superficial injuries and he was sure those would be completely gone by morning.

The AI sighed. "Yes, Captain," he replied, reluctantly as Steve allowed sleep to claim him.

Though Captain Rogers had initially been confused by the AI, he had come to use its vast knowledge on occasion. He was always polite and didn't threaten to turn JARVIS into a toaster. Plus, JARVIS knew that, beneath the rough outer exterior of Master Stark, there was a soft spot for the Captain, along with the other Avengers.

The young soldier may have refused help from his colleagues, but JARVIS made it his mission to monitor the room with greater attention than usual, ensuring Captain Rogers made it through the night.

* * *

_In an undisclosed location_

Footage was scrolling by on the four computer screens, displaying traffic cams, internal video screens and home security systems. The time stamp rolled in the bottom corners of all the feeds, the seconds changing to minutes in unison. A young man sat in front of the wall of monitors, his eyes flashing back and forth between the screens as his fingers raced over a keyboard.

"Tell me you have something," a soft voice whispered over his shoulder.

The man couldn't stifle the shiver that ran down his spine at the unwelcome breath against the nape of his neck.

"I…erhm, I do?" he stammered.

"You either do or you don't. There should not be a question."

"We might have something," he pointed to the upper left screen, where pixels were being sharpened and magnified one-by-one. "As soon as my program finishes, we may be able to get a full face."

"Gooood," the man crooned, melting into the dark hallway without another word.

The man released the pent-up full-body shudder. He continued to stare at the screens, scouring each one for a glimpse of the man who had robbed them of their most valuable possession.

Hearing a shrill beep, the man glanced up at the top screen as the final pixels sharpened and fell into a remarkably clear image.

"Sir," he yelled, knowing his leader was still close to the door. He hit print and the machine spat out a glossy 8x10.

Long, knobby fingers snatched the picture out of his hands before he had a chance to look at the rendered image himself.

"This," the leader spat, flipping the picture around, revealing a blond man in a dark blue bodysuit, his left hand clamped onto his right elbow, his head tilted slightly as he turned to look over his shoulder. And did he detect _panic _on the thief's face? "is the man?"

The frightened computer technician barely managed to stammer, "Y-y-y-yes, sir."

"Goooood." The leader reached out and squeezed the tech's shoulder in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, but sent another round of shivers down the tech's back. Grinning evilly, he patted his employee's shoulder one last time before dropping the photo into the tech's lap.

"Now," he whispered, his face just inches from the tech's ear, "find out who he is."

* * *

**Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Heartfelt thanks goes out to everyone who read/alerted/favorited/reviewed the first chapter. I hope this one lives up to your expectations.**

* * *

"Do you think he is awake yet?"

The words drifted through Steve's dreams, splaying themselves over the blackness that resided on the backs of his eyelids.

"He just got back from a mission, Barton. What do you think?"

"I think twenty-four hours is a long time to sleep."

He heard a soft slap and a yelp of pain. "That hurt Tasha!"

There was a beat of silence.

"Should we wake him?"

Steve heard a flurry of movement and a swift "Aha!" meaning Barton had probably managed to avoid a headslap, Natasha's newest method for correcting one of Clint's more outlandish ideas.

"I meant we should see if he's alright!" the archer squeaked.

He heard metal clicking and recognized it as the sound of the door handle depressing.

"It is locked."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

The slap sounded again, followed by a "Stop that Tasha!"

"Stop acting like a child and I won't have to."

There was deep grumbling from Clint. "Why don't you just pick it?"

"Rogers is signaling that he wants to be left alone. It is not my place to pry."

"Since when?"

_God, Clint really should stop before Natasha inflicted a more serious injury,_ Steve thought blearily, his thoughts still disconnected as he continued to wake.

Like clockwork, there was a third collision followed four-letter expletive from Barton.

There was a long moment of silence before he heard the swift clicking of heels moving away from the door. Then there was the soft thudding of sneakers, rushing to catch up.

"I will be back," Steve heard Natasha tell someone. Probably JARVIS.

"Yes, ma'am," came the clipped British tone and then the floor was once again quiet.

_Wait, had she said _twenty-four _hours_? The words jolted Steve into consciousness.

Fully awake, he gingerly lifted his right arm to turn the bedside clock, wincing when the movement stung his shoulder. In the unexpected pain, his original objective was forgotten and he gently palpated his ribs, grimacing again as even the gentlest of touches set his torso ablaze. Steve continued his examination by gently prodding his hip, gasping as the lateral portion of his leg burned. He glanced down, seeing his ripped pant leg and angry red cuts running from his hip to his ankle.

_Interesting…those should be much less painful._

Maybe Barton had been wrong because, surely, if he had slept for an entire day, most of his cuts and bruises would have healed. He held his breath as he glanced at the analog display and saw the date in the bottom corner, recognizing it as one day after Jones had dropped him off at Stark Tower.

Possible explanations for his current status raced through his mind, each new idea worse than the last. Momentary panic swept through his system before he forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. He had to think logically—there had to be an explanation. He _knew_ the serum was not an instantaneous cure-all…_but_ he was sure that at least _some _of his injuries should have healed by now.

He took another deep breath and recalled the conditions of his last mission, taking into account the general lack of food, muddy drinking water and little to no time for sleep. He relaxed slightly as he realized a combination of those factors were most likely the cause of his current healing rate. After all, he had no reason to believe there may be a problem with the serum…did he?

_Just give it more time,_ he decided, shaking his head rapidly to erase the lingering negative thoughts. _Maybe a decent meal and a day off will make the difference. _

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing as dried blood flaked off the appendage. Clearly, a shower was in order before he could consider any of the previous objectives.

Steve gently swung his legs over the side of the bed, concentrating on keeping his left leg as straight as possible. He wrapped his right arm around his torso and pushed off the bed with his left hand. He wavered once as the room swam but managed to stay upright. After the dizziness passed, he breathed deeply, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards as his vision remained clear.

That was a good sign.

He hobbled to the bathroom and managed to pull off his uniform top without much difficulty. He turned the shower dial to the hottest temperature and let the room fill with steam before he gently separated his pants from his lower leg. He stood under the massaging shower head for far longer than usual, allowing the harsh spray to beat on his shoulder and hip and, by the time the water had begun to cool, he felt bruised and battered but almost human.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped from the shower and caught a glimpse of his bruised flesh in the mirror. Deep shades of purple and yellow lined his chest, framed by the black colors that surrounded his shoulder and the greenish blue tones that began just below his left ribs and ran to his knee. From his earlier examination, he had known he was still bruised, but the brightness of the contusions astounded him nonetheless. He tamped down on the slightly panicked thoughts that resurfaced and concentrated on cleaning and wrapping his calf before pulling on a loose T-shirt and sweatpants.

When he was finished, he took a tentative step, a smile splitting his face when he found himself able to step fully with his left leg, as long as he didn't put too much weight on it. He limped to the door, pausing to run his fingers through his wet hair and pushing it into its normal coif.

He pulled open the door and was surprised to see Natasha Romanov standing casually in the door frame, one hand raised as if to knock.

"You look like crap," she announced, by way of greeting, slipping off to the side so Steve could pass.

The soldier frowned. "Thank you?"

He stepped into the hallway, yanked the door closed, and turned back around to see the Widow staring curiously at his right shoulder.

"Dislocated?" she asked, pointing at the joint she had seen him hold practically immobile.

Steve stared at her in surprise. "How did you know?"

"Rogers, please." She reached for the joint, not at all surprised that he pulled back slightly.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He tensed, but allowed her to gently lay one hand on the top of his shoulder and one on his bicep. She carefully gripped his upper arm and pressed her other hand into the rigid muscle of his neck. While she moved his arm in a small vertical circle, she increased the pressure until the muscle noticeably relaxed. Her left hand continued to move down his neck, along his collarbone and down to his upper back, pausing to work on each individual muscle group.

After a few minutes, she withdrew her hands causing a brief look of disappointment to flash across Steve's face. "Better?"

He slowly lifted his shoulder into a small shrug and was surprised to not feel as much pain. Feeling confident in her efforts, he cautiously rolled his shoulder and smiled when he received a less agonizing result. "Yeah. How did…"

"A magician never reveals her secrets," Natasha replied, whirling around and heading for the elevator. "I bet you're hungry. We left some dinner in the oven for you."

They rode down to the lower levels of Stark Tower in silence but it didn't escape Steve's notice that Natasha continued to glance over at him every few seconds as if worried he was going to spontaneously collapse. The seconds ticked by slowly and he leaned heavily against the handrail the moment she exited on the training floor, the mere effort of getting ready and walking into the elevator having been more exertive than he remembered.

Finally, the elevator dinged its arrival on the main kitchen and he straightened up, determined to project an uninjured front. Slowly, Steve hobbled into the kitchen to discover Tony Stark digging into a plate of leftovers—_his _plate of leftovers—heat spilling from the open oven door next to him.

"Cap!" Tony exclaimed, throwing some aluminum foil over the plate and shoving it back into the oven. He slammed the door closed and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms in front of him nonchalantly.

"Wasn't expecting you back so soon…"

"Liar," Steve retorted without any real malice. He knew JARVIS had informed Tony he was here against his wishes.

He crossed the short distance to the oven, doing his best to hide his limp. An arm's length away, his hip suddenly gave out, leaving him grabbing at a nearby table to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Tony's eyes widened and he quickly pulled out a chair.

"Dammit," Steve muttered, his cover blown. Grabbing tightly onto the table, he limped over to the chair and sat, scowling at Stark the whole way. He carefully lowered himself into the chair, keeping his left leg perfectly straight.

"Sooo," Tony began, reaching back into the oven and withdrawing the food. He grabbed a clean fork and mushed the pasta around to hide the fact that he had snacked on some, before handing the plate to the Cap. "That mission…"

"Can't talk about it." Steve's mouth began to water the moment Tony uncovered the massive plate. His stomach growled, reminding him it had been over one and a half days since he had last eaten.

Stark watched silently as Rogers began shoveling in food, barely taking time to breathe. With less than one-quarter of the plate empty, the Capsicle turned a slight shade of green and stared in horror at the rest of the Italian dish.

"Want some?" he pushed the plate towards Tony. "I'm stuffed."

Tony cocked his head, staring at Steve if he were a science project.

"Stop that," the soldier ordered, shooting Stark a dark look.

"You didn't even eat half of it…" Tony stated, tilting his head the other way.

"I wasn't very hungry," Steve lied.

"Curious," Tony murmured, sagely choosing to drop the subject. He squinted at Steve and ran his fingers through his spiky hair.

"So that mission—"

"Still can't talk about it, Stark."

Tony nodded, though he appeared to be more focused on Steve's face than his actual words. He nodded again then walked over to the freezer where he dug through the many frozen food containers to locate a bag of peas.

He tossed the peas to Steve, who caught them with his left hand. The inventor raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

"For your leg," he offered, sitting back down and shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Steve stared at the makeshift ice pack for a long moment before laying it on the side of his hip. "Thanks," he muttered.

"What?" Stark asked, his mouth full of spaghetti. He cupped a hand around his ear and leaned in closer. "I couldn't hear you."

Rogers scowled as he leaned his head against the high backing of the chair and closed his eyes.

"…All I'm saying," Tony paused to shovel in another mouthful of noodles, "is that it's nice to be appreciated. All I do for you guys—I offer up my tower, my food, and my services should any redhead require them—and this is the thanks I get?"

Without opening his eyes, Steve mumbled something incoherent and shifted in the chair.

It was almost adorable, Tony thought as he watched the Captain struggle to stay awake. He considered pulling out his phone and taking a picture but decided that if Steve was falling asleep in public, after just waking from a 24-hour siesta, the mission must not have gone as easily as the specs had made it sound.

And people said he wasn't a nice guy…

So, he rambled on. About his newest R&D projects, about his relationship with Pepper (he knew Steve was truly asleep when he didn't even respond to Tony's detailed descriptions of their latest trip to Malibu). As Tony shoveled in the last bite of pasta, he finally glanced up from his—well, Steve's—dinner. The captain's jaw was hanging slack, his eyes fluttering behind closed lids.

"Sleeping at the table, eh?" Tony teased softly, retrieving a blanket from the adjoining living room and draping it over Steve. "Back in your day, I bet you'd've gotten belted for that."

His gaze lingered on the Captain for another moment. It was common knowledge the kid was still in his twenties, younger than the rest of them, but, damn, if he didn't look years younger than that in his sleep. Stark shook his head and made sure the peas were still cold before leaving the kitchen, gently clicking the door closed behind him.

"JARVIS, status on Rip Van Winkle."

"I am not at liberty to say," the AI responded.

"On whose authority?"

"Captain Rogers."

"Dammit, JARVIS. I can still donate you to a local grade school," Tony threatened, glaring pointedly at the ceiling.

"Captain Rogers is recovering. That is all I am allowed to say, sir."

"JARVIS…" Tony trailed off.

"I am sorry sir. The Captain's life is not in danger, which would allow me to override Clause 572. I can only assure you he slept the entire twenty-four hour period, though some of it was not as restful as I would have hoped."

Tony was silent for a moment, mulling over his last encounter with Steve, paired with JARVIS' assessment.

"You're welcome, sir," JARVIS piped up.

"Grade school," Tony repeated, glaring up at the ceiling.

"I am aware of that threat, sir, but I also know I have been threatened with some variation of that punishment exactly sixty-four times in the last week and not once have you fulfilled your threat."

"Keep talking JARVIS and the sixty-fifth will be the one that does it."

"I am sorry sir." The AI sounded wounded, but Tony was too intrigued to care. His mind was whirring into speeds even he didn't know he possessed. While arriving at the Tower injured wasn't unusual for any other member of the team, Stark knew Rogers wasn't comfortable here. He much preferred his low-tech home in Brooklyn. The fact that he was here—and had refused food—had piqued his curiosity. If the one they had dubbed their captain wouldn't talk about the mission, then Tony would have to find out another way. After all, someone had to look after his father's greatest creation.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir—"

Tony groaned. "You know what they do computers in grade school, JARVIS? It's not pretty. They stick their grubby, sticky hands in your circuit boards. They bang on your keyboards. They make you work without breaks playing their juvenile games with the animated animals and the loud music—"

"There is a situation on the R&D level that requires your presence."

Stark sighed heavily. "What did Banner do now?"

"I am not entirely certain," JARVIS responded. "But I believe you should make your way there as soon as possible."

Tony scowled at the ceiling. Fine. He'd fix the mess one of his techs had created. _Then_, he'd figure out why this seeming simple mission Steve had completed was continuing to annoy him.

* * *

Steve woke with a start, his eyes flicking nervously around the room. He shrugged off the blanket that had magically appeared and shivered as cold air brushed against his wet hip. He glanced down in confusion, remembering his conversation with Stark once he saw the bag of melted peas. In his periphery, he saw a bottle of orange Gatorade on the table with a hastily scrawled note reading "Drink this" stuck to the lid.

He reached over and twisted off the cap, taking a few tentative sips of the electrolyte-laced beverage. Then, gripping the table, he hauled himself upright, pleasantly surprised when his legs decided to hold his weight. He managed to fold the blanket and, unsure where to put it, left it on the table before placing the peas back in the freezer.

Rogers glanced at the digital clock in the corner of the kitchen and, considering he felt marginally better, decided now was as good a time as any to start his report. His new mission in sight, the obedient soldier tucked the bottle of Gatorade under his arm and headed for the most low-tech office in the Tower. He sat at old-fashioned writing desk—which was clearly Pepper's doing since Stark would be appalled something so low-tech existed in his home—and began the grueling process of recalling the mission for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records. Six long pages later, he penned the last words, stuffed the report into an envelope and sealed it shut, dropping it in a specialized mail slot that led directly to S.H.I.E.L.D. on his way back to floor 34.

When he walked into 'his' room, he was surprised to see the blood-stained sheets had been removed and the bed had been made. There was also a stack of classic novels on the bedside table as well as a large bottle of water. He carefully flopped onto the bed and picked up the first novel. Despite Stark's insistence that a reading from a thin metal rectangle was better, he loved the weight of the book in his hands, the feeling of the paper between his fingers, the sound the page made as he eagerly turned it and the smell books picked up from old bookstores—these were tangible things that hadn't changed in seventy years and there just wasn't any way modern technology could compete with that.

He dove into the novel but had read less than one chapter before the pain started.

It blossomed in his calf with such intensity that it stole his breath away. It felt as if someone was stabbing his calf muscle with a hot poker, driving it into the bone, burrowing the searing point deep into his very marrow.

His book long forgotten, he lurched upwards and began rubbing his leg vigorously, thinking it was a nothing more than a severe cramp. His fingers kneaded deep into the muscle but his efforts only facilitated the spread of the spasm to his upper leg.

The agony traveled upwards in waves, rolling into his raw hip and setting the area alight. The pain was both sharp and dull at the same time, different levels waxing and waning in their intensity. It spread like wildfire along his entire body, from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head. His back arched and his limbs trembled as fire tore through them. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think: all he knew was this incredible anguish. He tried to relax, tried to restore his breathing, but with no result.

He fought against it, needing this to be a dream, needing this not to be reality. But his pleas fell upon deaf ears.

He remained immobile throughout this excruciating torture, his teeth grinding together as his limbs twitched without his control, his mind trapped in his body's agony. After what seemed like hours, he could stand it no more.

Relinquishing his grip on reality, he slipped into unconsciousness, grateful for the reprieve from the completely mind-numbing pain that, up until this point, he had only ever experienced during Project: Rebirth.

* * *

**Not much excitement in this chapter but it was necessary to move along the plot. There's a lot of action in the next chapter to make up for it.**

**Up next: what is really wrong with Steve and will he share his concerns with anyone? Also, what happens when Fury wants to send the Avengers on a collective mission?**


	3. Chapter 3

Awareness crashed into Steve with all the subtlety of a Black Friday mob.

His hearing returned in seconds, bringing with it a shrill beeping that echoed through the once-silent room. Steve groaned and buried his head into an incredibly soft pillow, hoping, in his semi-conscious state, that the sound would just...disappear. Despite his silent prayers, the beeping continued, increasing in intensity as it was ignored. It took his sluggish brain a few moments to realize that the beeping object was most likely his pager, the method by which S.H.I.E.L.D. had agreed to contact him until someone taught how a mobile phone worked.

Without thinking, Steve reached out and slapped at the side table, desperate to turn off the relentless noise so he could slip back into unawareness. Instead of landing on the metal device though, his hand collided with a pile of what felt like paper. _Books,_ he realized, _the novels someone had left for him_—

His heart stopped beating as events of last night came rushing back to him—the mind-numbing pain, the full-body tremors, the stabbing agony, the inability to move and, finally, the blissful unconsciousness. As much as he wanted to forget, he also remembered his last conscious thought which, even now, sent fear racing through his veins.

He screwed his eyes closed, his breath catching in his throat as he lifted his hand off the nightstand. He had to check—had to be sure the effects of serum hadn't somehow been undone.

After what seemed like hours, his fingers landed on his upper leg. Even through the slight tremble of his hand, he could feel the defined quadricep muscle and knew this was not the leg of a malnourished boy from the '40s. He lifted the same hand and cautiously felt his ribs, wincing as his fingers brushed across tender flesh, but not finding sharp bones poking their way through too thin skin. His heart still pounding, he reached out and touched his face, his hand ghosting against the cheek which wasn't hollow and sunken.

_No, Project: Rebirth hadn't been undone,_ he decided, letting out the breath he had been holding. He hadn't reverted into the emaciated weakling he had once been. What he had felt last night was just a fluke…right? Nothing more than a dream—a nightmare, more accurately—that had left him physically exhausted and mentally drained...

Yet, as he came to this conclusion, he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had been two days and he was still bruised, still limping slightly, and the cuts on his leg were still red and puckered. Overall, his injuries were definitely better but there was no explanation for his increased recovery time.

His pager screeched more loudly than before, snapping him out of his thoughts. Blearily, he forced his eyes open and stared at the blinking numbers on the device's face. From previous missions, he knew these digits represented a meeting time with the Director himself. He groaned again as he realized he had less than thirty minutes to make himself presentable for his video conference.

He wanted nothing more than to ignore Fury's summons until he figured out just what was wrong with him, but his inner soldier refused to disobey a direct order from his superior. Taking a deep, calming breath, he reluctantly tamped down on the nagging feeling that something was still seriously wrong and threw off the sweat-soaked sheets that were clinging to his every contour.

_Maybe Dr. Banner would have an explanation,_ he thought as hauled himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. After all, the doctor was probably the only one on the team who would be professional about the entire situation and have the decency not to tell the others until he had made a definite conclusion.

After the meeting with Fury, Steve would try to locate the doctor who could more often than not be found in the Research and Development floors of the Tower.

Maybe then he could get some answers.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Steve sat nervously in the hardwood chair, his forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He buried the cough that tickled the back of his throat as Director Fury stormed onscreen, flipping through a thin file.

"Good work, Rogers," Fury barked, nodding at the final page before throwing the folder onto a table.

"Thank you, sir," Steve replied. He cleared his throat loudly, trying to force out the cough underneath the sound.

Fury squinted at the screen. "You feeling alright, son? You look a little pale."

He sat up straighter and stared the Director directly in his eye. "Didn't sleep well last night, sir. Nothing I can't handle."

He forced himself to hold completely still while Fury stared silently at him, knowing he was being evaluated. "I read your report," Fury began after a long moment. "Dislocated shoulder, motorcycle accident, bruised ribs. You're lucky it wasn't worse."

"With all due respect, sir, it should have been much better. There was far more men than the file mentioned."

"Your report has been used to update the files. We're sorry you had to experience that, Captain Rogers," Fury spat, looking very uncomfortable as the words left his mouth.

"All part of the job," the soldier responded, shrugging. His throat was burning with the suppressed cough and he sipped from a bottle of water that had been sitting on the table.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Get your team ready."

Steve was so surprised by Fury's statement that he choked on his water. It was far too soon for another mission: he still had too many unanswered questions about the outcome of the last one.

"Sir?" the soldier questioned when he could breathe again.

"An army of unmanned drones had hit the greater New York area. They took down our first line of defense without breaking stride. We need your and your team ready within the hour. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take down the drones and do as little property damage as possible. We know the Hulk has begun to listen to you: exploit that."

As much as Steve wanted to refuse, there were innocent people out there who, judging by Fury's assessment, didn't stand a chance without the Avengers' assistance.

"Yes, sir," he replied as he saluted but his voice lacking its usual enthusiasm.

Fury returned the gesture. "Transport will be outside the Tower in ten minutes with your new uniform. Between you and me, I hear Edna was furious her supposedly indestructible suit was destroyed so quickly." After the corners of his mouth twitching into what could be loosely called a smile, he raised a hand to disconnect the video.

"Be careful Rogers," he muttered before he swiped a hand under his chin and the video screen flashed to random bars of color.

Steve barely had time to get to the ground level before the nondescript compact car braked in front of the Tower. He slipped into the backseat seconds before the driver screeched away from the curb. Since the barrier just behind the driver's seat was completely raised, Steve silently reclined in the plush seat and leaning his throbbing head against the cool window for the duration of the ride.

After bypassing extensive security and changing into his new uniform, he walked into an unoccupied S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room where the team sans Thor was sitting around a circular table in complete silence. Clint must have seen the questioning look on his face and informed the soldier that the Norse god was unable to make the trip to Earth on such short notice but promised his services as soon as he could get away.

Rogers pulled up a chair and rested his pounding head against his fist as he watched everyone return to their pre-battle rituals: Natasha was throwing knives against a beat-up cork board; Clint was holding up his arrows, staring down the shaft to ensure they were all perfectly straight; Stark was fiddling with his newest prototype for an alternative to the iPhone and Banner was reading a dog-eared novel.

A harsh clanging and the numerous projection screens flickering to life brought the team to attention.

"These are your targets," Fury announced, storming into the room with his cape trailing behind him and pointing to a large mechanical invention on a screen.

"Robots?" Natasha scowled.

"Worse. Droids. Fully autonomous. Reinforced metal plating. Bulletproof and damn near impervious to human weapons far as we can tell."

"How long have you known?" Banner spoke up, closing his book and sliding it aside.

"Last night," Fury admitted. "We sent out a team to contain them. All were sent to the hospital early this morning: one dead and six with life-threatening injuries. A few got off lucky, but not many."

"Known weaknesses?" Stark questioned, lifting his phone so it was framed by the larger screen. The built-in camera quickly captured the image and Tony pulled his fingers together to lift a hologram off the screen.

"We weren't ab—"

Tony held up his hand. "Not you. JARVIS."

"It will take me some minutes to run some simulations, sir."

"Keep me informed," Tony slammed his opened hand down on the hologram, pushing it back into his phone.

Fury glared at the genius, eyes blazing at Tony's blatant disregard for his authority. "Get out there and contain the damage," he ground out. "Keep them from taking the city. You hear me?"

There were five simultaneous nods.

Fury nodded and stomped out of the room.

"All right Avengers," Steve began as Natasha straightened up and slipped the knives into various holsters. Clint quickly packed up his quiver and twanged the string on his bow. Stark flicked open the briefcase by his side and, as he stood up, the Iron Man suit began assembling around him. Across the table, Banner's skin took on a distinctive green coloring.

Steve slipped his cowl over his face, his aches, his pains, his concerns all muted as adrenaline raced through his system. Despite everything that was going on around him, he felt normal for the first time in days.

"Let's go save New York City."

* * *

The city in question was once again turned into a battleground. The droids were maybe three feet tall and looked remarkably like the robot butler from _the Jetsons_. The army rolled into the city, unfazed by the bullets slamming into them that barely left a dent in their armor.

Also, the robots had the ability to conduct electricity. Tony discovered this fact the hard way when a bolt knocked the power out of the Iron Man suit, sending him smashing into the ground.

As he struggled with the manual override, an arrow flew past him and thwacked into the lower portion of the droid that had electrocuted his suit. It apparently lost the ability to steer for it spun several times before exploding.

"I used to be an adventurer like you," Stark quipped as the HUD flickered back to life, "but then I took an arrow to the knee."

He glanced up in Hawkeye's direction, a wide grin on his face.

"Clever," Barton snapped as he notched another arrow. "Real clever. Been saving that one for a while have you?"

"Since the first time we met," Tony replied before performing a quick examination of the suit while JARVIS was offline. Luckily, it hadn't suffered too much physical damage though the power continued to blip intermittently as the circuits struggled to compensate for the surge. Reasonably confident that it was still operational, he powered off the ground and discharged his repulsors at an oncoming group of robots.

Though their armor was immune to bullets, the Hulk's mighty strength, the Cap's shield and Stark's various weapons were doing a fair amount of damage. Thor, who had arrived twenty minutes into the fight, drew lighting with Mjölnir and shorted out quite a few of the metal bots. Clint and Natasha focused mainly on keeping civilians out of the danger zone, though they managed to get in a few goods hits to the base of the droids' "neck", which had shown to be a weak spot.

Despite their efforts, the robot army refused to give in, more and more droids rolling into the city, two for every one that fell. But the Avengers kept fighting and, eventually, the stream of machines started to dwindle, giving Stark time to wonder about the reason behind the robots' invasion. They didn't swarm toward any particular building, nor did they seem to target any person specifically. It appeared that the attack had no purpose other than destruction of the greater New York area.

"All clear," the Widow's voice sounded over the intercom, followed by a shrill shriek and a solid thump. "Anyone have eyes on Cap?"

Natasha's question confirmed what Tony had seen earlier in the battle: Steve was tiring, more quickly than usual. His shield was flying half its usual distance and without its usual force, though the vibranium was still putting large dents in droids' bulletproofing. With just a single glance, he, Thor and the Hulk had seen to it that Steve was fighting as few of the machines as possible.

"I have not seen our leader in a great while," Thor bellowed, bounding towards a group of droids that were quickly scooting away, Mjölnir reaching towards the sky.

"I'll find him," Stark blasted the last robot in his area, flipped around in the air, and headed towards the Rogers' last known position.

Iron Man flew effortlessly between buildings, the power in his suit now stabilized, slipping sideways to make a particularly tight corner. As he turned the last bend, he saw Steve throw his shield, hitting a droid in its already dented midsection and slicing it into neat halves.

"To your right, sir," JARVIS intoned.

Tony froze, his eyes locked on a larger droid rolling unevenly in his direction. The almost five-foot machine was quivering so greatly it barely managed to stay balanced. Iron Man raised his hands, his repulsors glowing white.

"I detected additional enhancements to the metal, sir. Increased power will be required to blast through its shell," JARVIS interrupted before Tony released his pulse.

"How much more?" Tony asked, closing his left hand, transferring its energy to the right. He glanced down, seeing Steve's shield bounce off a brick wall and decapitate another droid. The Capsicle had his back to this larger robot as he continued to fight two others.

"50% more than what you currently have," JARVIS replied after a pause.

Suddenly, the droid raised its two claw-like hands, blue energy cackling between the metal.

"That'll have to do, JARVIS," Tony threw open his palm at the exact second the robot shifted his hands to the right, releasing a wave of pure energy in Steve's direction.

"STEVE!" Tony screamed, diving towards Rogers. He watched in horror as the Captain spun around, his hands grasping desperately for his shield that was just out of his reach. The wave slammed into Steve, throwing him backwards into a nearby brick wall.

The breath whooshed out of Steve's lungs and his face contorted in pain. He hung for a moment, lifeless, before sliding down the wall and collapsing in a heap on the ground.

"What's going on with Cap?" Tony heard Barton hollered into the earpiece. He winced and JARVIS responded by turning down the volume, not that he was really paying attention anymore. He was completely focused on the red, white and blue bundle of spandex lying motionless on the concrete.

Red tingeing his vision, Iron Man descended on the robot, blasting it with both palm thrusters. The robot exploded, little pieces of metal shattering in every direction. Tony whirled around, blasting every moving piece of metal around him, and the droids that were trying to reassemble fell as they were met with the sharp pulses. When all the surrounding machines were reduced to pieces of scrap metal, Iron Man sprinted to Steve's side.

Captain America was laying on his stomach, his arms and legs splayed awkwardly around him. The back of his head was wet with blood and it dripped lazily down the left side of his face, pooling in the dirt around him.

Stark knelt down, flipped back his face plate and threw off his right glove.

"Cap?" he breathed, his fingers shaking as they reached towards Steve's carotid artery. He exhaled as he felt a faint rise and fall beneath his fingers.

"We need a medic over here!" he barked. He grabbed hold of Steve's uniform sleeve and tugged, the reinforced fabric giving easily under Iron Man's strength.

"They have already been notified, sir," JARVIS replied as Tony wadded up the cloth and held it against the back of Steve's head. The soldier groaned as the fabric collided with his tender wound.

"Sorry," Tony said quietly, "but I will not be responsible for letting Captain America bleed out."

Rogers winced and slowly lifted one eyelid, revealing a large, blown-out pupil. His mouth was moving but no words could be understood.

"Just stay awake, Steve," Tony ordered. "Stay with me."

He felt the ground rumble beneath him and knew Thor and the Hulk had arrived.

"What has befallen our leader?" Thor roared, whipping Mjölnir in a deadly circle.

Tony saw Steve's face tighten at the loud timbre of his teammate. "Indoor voice, big guy."

"Yes, of course," Thor replied in a much lower tone. "I am sorry."

There was a groaning shriek, more silent than usual, and a partially-clothed Banner came to kneel beside him, his skin and pupils still a deep shade of green. "How is he?"

"Partially conscious. Has a concussion."

Banner gently lifted the rag from the back of Steve's skull. "That looks surprisingly superficial. Head wounds—"

"—bleed a lot," Tony finished. "Yeah, I know."

Thor tilted his head as he heard sirens in the distance. "I believe the healers are approaching."

"Well they'd better hurry up," Tony snapped.

Steve's eyes slipped open again, staring dully at his entourage. He blinked slowly as Natasha and Clint joined the rest of the Avengers around their fallen teammate.

"Steve?" Banner asked.

"Y'stttthhhh?" The Captain mumbled incoherently.

"You need to stay awake."

"Uh-huh," he slurred, nodding once. His eyes listed between the different members of the team, a bolt of recognition slicing through the confusion when he spied the Iron Man suit.

"W'at 'app'n'd?"

"You got hit by the Force," Tony replied before Banner could, his sarcasm sliding into the conversation to mask his concern for his teammate.

"The…Force?" Steve raised himself onto his elbows, despite the protests from Banner.

Stark shook his head. "Never mind."

"Just stay there," Banner instructed, throwing a look in Tony's direction. "We want the medics to eliminate any fractures before you start moving."

Steve just moved his head up and down once, staring intently at the ground in front of him.

"You know, that red stuff's supposed to stay on the inside," Tony quipped as he pulled the soaked cloth away from the back of Steve's head and exchanged it for the clean padding Clint had prepared.

"Uh-huh," Steve agreed half-heartedly.

Suddenly, his face turned a shade of green not dissimilar to the Hulk's and his eyes widened. He twisted his head just seconds before he retched…all over Tony's Iron Man boots.

"'m…sorry!" he gasped, his one arm wrapping around his strained abdomen. Panic flashed across his face again and he emptied his stomach a second time.

Tony could have handled either the deep lines of pain creasing Steve's face _or_ the pinkish splotches of color on his cheeks revealed his complete embarrassment but, for some reason, the combination of the two made him want to do something, _anything_, to alleviate some of Rogers' pain. "It's okay. Hey, it's okay," he quickly and awkwardly patted the mortified soldier on his upper back.

Steve shook his head, prepared to speak, but his body was wracked with a dry heave. Banner rubbed his hand gently up and down Steve's back as his body tried to expel the nonexistent contents of his stomach.

Unsure of what else to do until the ambulance arrived, Tony respectfully averted his gaze, choosing instead to stare at his ruined boots. He could make new ones, he decided as he watched the multicolored gunk run off the metal. No big—

"Banner," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off his metal footwear.

"Stark, now's really not the time," Bruce replied. In the background, the sirens were getting louder.

"You need to see this." Stark grabbed the back of Banner's neck and practically shoved the doctor's face into his metal boots.

There was a beat of silence. Then Banner cursed softly and jerked his head out of Stark's grip, his eyes wide.

"We need those medics right away!" he shouted, motioning madly towards the ambulances that had just screeched to a halt. Natasha took her cue and sprinted towards the EMTs to threaten them into faster motion.

"What?" Clint questioned, craning his neck to get a better look. "What is it?"

Tony met Barton's stare, his mouth set in a grim line. "It's blood."

* * *

**I know everything seems chaotic at the moment with the different missions and the seemingly unrelated injuries but I promise it will all come together.**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	4. Chapter 4

The next few minutes were a blur as three EMTs pushed their way through a throng of onlookers, ordering everyone to move behind the barrier. The lead paramedic tried to convince the standing Avengers to do the same but Thor, Natasha and Clint had other plans. After quickly exchanging glances, they collectively took a few steps backwards and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a wall between their injured teammate and the bystanders.

Realizing it was a lost cause, the paramedic shoved his way past Iron Man and quickly evaluated Captain America's head wound, swapping the pinkish cloth with a thick layer of clean padding and securing it with gauze. His team bustled around him, snapping a cervical collar around Steve's neck before carefully flipping him onto the gurney. One technician palpated Rogers' abdomen, not happy with what he discovered judging by the deep frown on his face, while another slipped an oxygen mask over Steve's face before starting to prepare the IVs.

Steve's eyes, once unfocused, suddenly cleared and he weakly clutched Iron Man's metal arm. Stark responded immediately, slapping the syringe wielded by an overeager technician away from the soldier's inner elbow.

"What's wrong?" Tony demanded.

Steve shakily motioned towards the ragged edge of his uniform sleeve. Tony gently moved Cap's hand and pulled back the shredded fabric.

He had an idea about what to expect but was shocked nevertheless to see a myriad of colors splashed across Steve's chest. He ignored the most recent contusions and was able to isolate yellowed, fading bruises, at least three days old.

"You're not healing," he stated.

Unable to nod in the cervical collar, Steve closed his eyes in acknowledgment, relief flashing across his face as his message was received. The S.H.I.E.L.D. medics had a tendency to give him a larger dose of vaccinations and medications due to his heightened metabolism. Right now though, he wasn't sure his body could handle an increased dosage.

Stark turned to the tech. "Is that a normal dose?" he asked, pointing to the syringe.

"I don't—"

"Would you give that to him?" Stark pivoted on his back heel, shoving his finger in Clint's face.

"Yes," the tech replied, looking surprised.

Stark continued to point at Barton. "If he were lying on the ground right now, bleeding and semi-conscious, you'd have no qualms about emptying that entire syringe into his arm?"

The tech was thoroughly confused. "None whatsoever."

Stark dropped his hand and leaned back onto his haunches. "Carry on."

The tech stared uncertainly at Tony before inserting a needle into the soft flesh of Steve's elbow and connecting a slew of IVs to it.

They spared a second to strap Rogers to the gurney before taking off so quickly their heels were practically smoking. They were speaking as rapidly as they were moving, throwing around a bunch of medical terms that did not sound promising to Stark, who was sprinting to keep up.

By the time the Avengers reached the ambulance, the gurney had already been lifted inside. Just before the metal doors closed, Bruce climbed into the ambulance and situated himself on a makeshift bench protruding from the wall. The EMTs acknowledged his presence with a brief nod before returning to their jobs and the third technician just shrugged, secured the back doors and dashed toward the driver's seat.

The siren blared and the ambulance raced away from the scene, its red and blue lights flashing. While Tony, Natasha, Thor and Clint quickly commandeered a passersby's vehicle with the promise that S.H.I.E.L.D. would return it in a few hours, Banner leaned against the side wall of the ambulance, trying not to be intrusive while the technicians danced around Steve. One technician took Rogers' temperature and grimaced as it registered far too high. Another slid on a blood pressure cuff—"way too low", she declared—and shined a small penlight into his listless eyes—"moderate but probably not severe," she stated.

Throughout the entire examination, Banner gripped Steve's hand tightly and wiped sweat off the soldier's face with a towel.

"We need to get him cooled down," the paramedic ordered from the front of the van where he was forcefully snapping instant ice packs in half. He broke open five before climbing into the rear of the vehicle. His team had already torn away the rest of Steve's uniform top, revealing each and every bruise the soldier had accrued in the last few days.

"Jesus, kid," he swore under his breath, taken aback by the sheer multitude of contusions. Years of training kept him from gawking and he quickly placed the ice around Steve's neck, under his arms and around his groin.

The Captain was barely conscious, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to stay awake.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is clearing out a section of the hospital," Banner heard Natasha say through the comms, her voice completely devoid of any emotion. "Their medics are waiting at the door."

She cleared her throat and Banner could almost see her persona shift from _operative_ to _worried teammate and friend_. "How is he?" she asked after a brief pause.

"Burning up," Banner responded, observing the older tech press heart monitor leads onto Steve's chest and clip a pulse ox to his index finger. He glanced at the numbers on screen before reporting, "but holding steady."

Without warning, Steve's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, his hand fumbling with the oxygen mask. Tilting his head to the side, he heaved violently, but there was nothing further for his stomach to expel.

Banner was on his feet instantly, moving closer to his friend.

"Gah!" Steve sputtered, his abdomen throbbing. He heard Banner get up and unconsciously leaned into the doctor as he continued to cough and gag. Bruce was taken aback for a moment, but quickly wrapped his arm around the soldier, feeling tremors running rampant under his fingers.

"Can't you give him something for that?" he snapped.

"He may be bleeding internally. We don't want to risk it," the paramedic replied.

When Steve finally relaxed, Bruce gently lowered the Captain back onto the gurney and replaced the ice. Rogers, who was slightly more aware, grimaced as the cold packs came into contact with his skin.

"Sorry," Banner murmured before he returned to wiping Steve's brow.

"Hold on," the driver shouted, yanking hard on the wheel and sending the ambulance into a jerky 90-degree turn that landed them directly in front of the Emergency Department's sliding doors.

The chaos returned as techs reported to doctors, both from the hospital and from S.H.I.E.L.D. Armed guards held back bystanders and were checking the IDs of the employees before they were allowed contact with Captain America.

Bruce was pushed out of the way, regarded as a hindrance now, as the doctors grabbed the gurney and raced inside. But the mild-mannered physicist did not give in so easily. He forced his way through the hospital doors, bypassing the lone receptionist, trailing only a step behind the doctors.

"…x-rays…make it a priority," he caught only snatches of the conversation. "…an OR ready…"

They came to a set of doors with "Employees Only Beyond This Point" emblazoned on them in large red letters.

A nurse released her grip on the gurney and flipped around to block Bruce's path. "You can't come in here, Dr. Banner. Please head to the waiting room."

She paused as she saw the worry in his eyes and her features softened.

"I am sorry, Dr. Banner, but it is hospital policy. And the quicker I get in there, the quicker we can figure out what is going on with Captain Rogers."

Unable to disprove her logic, he nodded reluctantly.

"We'll take good care of him," she added, whirling around and swiping her card to get her through the reinforced doors.

Left without any other option, Bruce wandered back to a small room, just one hallway away from the OR, sat in a hard plastic chair, and dropped his head into his hands.

And that was how the other Avengers found him ten minutes later. Silently, they slipped into seats next to him, their faces bloodied and bruised, probably all needing medical attention themselves. But not now-not until they knew Steve was all right.

Thor had been "convinced" (read that: forced, if he wanted to set foot in the hospital) to leave Mjölnir in the hands of a newbie S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who looked like he was going to wet himself every time the god spoke. Tension rolled off his powerful shoulders as he sat in the small seat, his right hand opening and closing as he unconsciously searched for the strength his weapon usually provided.

Natasha was sitting in the hard plastic chair with perfect posture, gripping the chair's arms so tightly her knuckles were turning white. After a moment, Clint reached over and took her hand, rubbing small circles with his thumb; for once, she didn't retaliate with some form of violence.

Stark, who had de-suited en route, just sat next to Banner and assumed the same pose, for once, having nothing to say.

And that's how the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics found them, one long hour later. The team endured the pokes and prodes, the bandages, and, in Stark's case, the stitches, their collective mind on the other side of the steel door.

About an hour after that, an orderly arrived with enough food to feed a small army. Not feeling very hungry himself, Stark encouraged everyone to eat something. They looked at him blankly and sighed, but listened, picking at the sandwiches and sipping the beverages.

Finally, after yet another excruciating hour, the steel doors swung open. They all rose as a very young doctor approached them, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as he laid eyes on all of the Avengers.

Stark rolled his eyes. The kid had to have known this was coming.

"How's Rogers?" he barked.

The doctor shook his head and flipped open Steve's bulging file. "Captain Rogers suffered severe abdominal trauma, most likely caused from his collision with the wall, which compounded the previous injuries he suffered no more than a few days ago."

He glanced up, adding, "Fury showed me the report before I began my examination.

"The force burst several blood vessels in his gastrointestinal tract, which we believe to be the reason as to why he was vomiting blood. The EGD revealed no serious tears and we believe it is the best course of action to let them heal on their own," he paused and flipped through a few more pages.

"He didn't sustain any fractures, only moderate contusions. He has a grade-2 concussion so we'll be keeping a close eye on him tonight. We also dealt with his older injuries, disinfecting the abrasions on his leg, checking range of motion on the shoulder, nothing too invasive. Like I just said, the rest is just bruising that will heal in time. What's most concerning now is the fever—it's a good sign," he clarified to his shocked audience. "It means his body is fighting."

Banner cleared his throat. "Just _what _is his body fighting?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. He paged through the file several times before scrubbing his forehead and sighing heavily. "Right now, we don't know. The technicians reported he appeared not to be healing at his typical rate, but, given his current state, I'd say that wouldn't be unusual. Captain Rogers is worn down: he's borderline dehydrated and his body is exhibiting all the usual signs of stress and fatigue. I'd say his last mission wasn't a cakewalk. Upon his return, he would have needed to consume additional calories to allow him to heal…I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that didn't happen."

Stark thought back to dinner and winced as he realized he should have listened to the nagging sensation that kept telling him something was wrong with Steve.

The doctor cleared his throat before continuing, "We've noticed some interesting anomalies in his blood work, so we're going to keep him here a few extra days and run some more tests to try to figure out what exactly is going on. When he's well enough, we'll transfer him to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base."

As Stark opened his mouth to speak again, the doctor cut in, "We're being cautious: so we're erring on the human side of dosages until we have more answers."

Stark nodded, satisfied.

"The human side?" Natasha questioned. "You don't mean…" she trailed off.

The doctor dragged his hand down his face. "We don't know what it means right now. Like I said, we're just being careful."

He scanned the row of superheroes. "Any more questions?"

"When can we see him?" Clint spoke up.

"He's still in post-op. I can have Aaron," he motioned with a twitch of his head to the guard that had followed him out of the operating room, "escort you to his room."

The Avengers nodded before getting up and following the guard. There was no conversation, just stunned silence. Steve was always the one who made it through the missions without medical stays; he was the one who took the hits and never stopped fighting. None of them had ever seen Cap in this position and that realization worried them more than they would care to say aloud.

They shuffled into a basic white room with only one chair. The men automatically offered it to Natasha, who shoved Clint into it after he "closed his eyes and temporarily lost his balance," he insisted. She glared dangerously at him and he clamped his mouth closed, shifting dramatically to find a more comfortable position in the seat.

The remaining four perched around the room, fingers tapping and feet twitching as they anxiously awaited the first sight of their leader.

* * *

_In an undisclosed location_

Facial recognition software flashed on the screen above the sleeping computer technician.

_No match._

_No match._

_No match._

_1 point matched…3 points matched…7 points matched._

_97% match._ The computer beeped loudly, announcing its find.

The tech twitched, slowly lifting his head to see the results.

The left was the image taken from the security video; the right, a set of sepia video footage that was at least half a century old. Each photo was overlaid with a series of circles that marked the points of definition. A startling number of green lines ran between corresponding portions of the two faces.

He clicked his mouse and reran the results, pulling additional images from various databases around the world.

All matches.

"Sir?" he rasped, his throat dry and scratchy. He swallowed hard and tried again, this time much louder. "SIR!"

"Yesss?" his boss hissed, instantaneously behind him.

The younger man barely repressed a full-body shudder as he felt his leader's breath on the nape of his neck. He leaned forward to increase the space between him and his employer and pointed at the screens.

"We've found him."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry about the wait. FanFiction refused to let me upload over the weekend.**

**Thank you so much for your kind reviews/alerts/favorites! I love hearing from you all!**

* * *

Clint was the first to hear wheels rolling along the hospital's laminated floor. He straightened up and rested his right hand on the grip of the P30 he had sneaked past security. As the wheels creaked to a stop, he saw Natasha pull her knees to her chest so her fingers dangled inches from the ankle sheath he knew she hadn't surrendered. They both tensed as the door creaked open and a green-clad nurse stepped into the room.

"He's sleeping," she whispered as she stepped out of the doorway, allowing her coworkers to push a gurney into the room.

Since they had been sitting closest to the door, Clint and Natasha were the first to catch a glimpse of the captain.

Steve was covered in a thin white sheet that did little to hide the harsh colors splashed on his chest and shoulder. His skin was ghostly white, almost the same color as the linens, with the exception of his cheeks which were flushed with fever. An oxygen cannula crossed under his nose and a white bandage wrapped around his head held a thick pad of gauze against the back of his skull. He remained completely still as the technicians pushed the gurney across the room and secured it against the far wall.

While the nurse powered on various monitoring systems, Thor stared silently at the motionless soldier, not having fully understood the fragility of the Midgardian bodies until this very moment. A low growl tore through his throat and he splayed his hand at his side, sending a wave of energy rolling through the room. The walls started to rattle, frightening the lone nurse.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, shocking Thor from his reverie. "It won't do Steve any good," Banner said softly. The god slowly nodded, recognizing the truth in the physicist's words; as he relaxed his hand, the room stilled.

On the other side of the room, Tony scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to rid his photographic memory of Rogers' ashen features. The events of the last few days raced through his mind and he was now able to recall with great detail every action of Steve's that should have warranted an immediate trip to see Dr. Banner or a S.H.I.E.L.D. medic. And yet, Stark had done nothing about it—he'd allowed other items to take priority, promising to get to it later. Then he had been given another chance, at the start of their mission, when he and all the other Avengers saw Steve throw his shield for the first time: they should have made him go back, should have told him to sit this one out. Instead, they'd ignored their collective gut feeling, in silent hope that they were wrong.

All of the sudden, it became too much: he couldn't sit there any longer and watch Steve fight to survive. He whirled on his heel and stormed out of the hospital room, shoving past an armed guard. "I need some air."

Banner nodded sympathetically but didn't look away from the hospital bed, carefully watching every action the nurse made to ensure the equipment was connected correctly. Finally, she finished settling Steve in and announced that his doctor would be by in an hour or so.

Seconds after the nurse left, Thor crossed his arms in front of his chest, stating, "Our leader does not look well."

"No," Bruce agreed, snatching the Captain's medical chart from the foot of the bed. "He doesn't."

He leaned back in his chair and began flipping through the thick file. Ignoring the impatient coughs and whistles from the other Avengers, the physicist ran his finger down a page of Steve's vitals, unconsciously making a face.

"What?" Clint finally demanded.

"The doctors were right. His vitals are all over the map but seem to have steadied out the last hour," Banner summarized. "Currently, the lead physician is attributing his decreased healing rate to lack of rest and nutrients between missions, but they've sent samples to S.H.I.E.L.D. as a precaution. They're fairly certain that he'll be back to normal after a few days' rest and proper meals."

"You don't really think there's something wrong with the serum," Natasha questioned quietly. It was more a statement, but Bruce felt inclined to answer anyway.

"We have no idea. But, I wouldn't worry about it until we get the results of the blood panel, which won't be for another," he paused to check his watch, "twelve hours or so."

"That long?" Thor grimaced.

"That is a remarkably fast turnaround for a complete work-up. S.H.I.E.L.D. must have friends in high places." He glanced at Barton and Romanov who were nodding solemnly.

"He will wake, yes?" Thor asked as he moved towards Steve's bed. He couldn't help but stare curiously at the soldier since he was unaccustomed to seeing his friend looking so vulnerable. Asgardians were rarely seriously injured due to their ability to heal almost instantly. _Not unlike the ability Steve Rogers usually possessed_, he thought sadly.

"In time," Bruce closed the file and hooked it to the foot of the bed.

Thor scowled. "What are we to do while he slumbers?"

Natasha reached out with her foot and nudged an empty chair towards the god of lightning.

"We wait."

* * *

Slowly, he became aware of soft noises: clickings, beepings, whooshings.

As he gently rose from unconsciousness, the noises rose in intensity, settling on a level just under annoying. At the same time, the degree of coldness seemed to increase as well until he was fairly sure he was actually shivering.

He felt a calloused hand on his forehead and heard someone mutter "still warm."

He shivered again, ice driving down his spine. It was very cold...wherever he was. Maybe he could ask whoever had spoken for a blanket.

_You'd have to wake up first, _a voice of unknown origin said. _Let them know you're alright._

_That seems fair,_ he thought hazily and focused on lifting his leaden eyelids.

"He's waking up," someone announced. He heard chairs screeching as they were shoved backwards and felt people standing much closer to him than they originally were.

"It's all right, Steve. You're safe. You can open your eyes now."

With great effort, he did as the unknown voice asked and instantly regretted it. The world swam, the greys and beiges of this unknown place swirling together, and the harsh overhead light seared into his retinas causing his head to ache. He squinted against the beams that increased the throbbing in his head tenfold.

"Sorry!" someone whispered sharply. He heard another soft click and the light went out, leaving only scant illumination from the other side of the room. He bit down hard and focused on a darker blob, waiting until his vision began to steady. As the world slowly stopped turning, he saw four very worried faces come into view.

"Hey," Clint whispered with a lopsided smile.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.

Steve concentrated on evaluating his condition but his body felt too weightless and detached for a definite answer. "C'ld…Head…'urts," he finally stammered between shivers.

"You're running a bit of a fever," Banner said, his eyes flickering between the various machines. Meanwhile, Natasha reached behind her, grabbed one of the throws the nurse had left for them and spread it over Steve, pulling it up to his chin.

"Th'nks," Rogers shifted, wincing as each and every one of his bruises made themselves known. The blanket was thin, but any extra heat at this point was a win in his book.

"Should we get a doctor?" Clint questioned.

"No…jus'…sore," Steve whispered with long pauses between his words. He slowly scanned the room, taking in his teammates' concerned expressions, before he noticed the two IV bags hanging next to his bed.

"Wassat?"

"The good stuff," Banner responded. "Do we need to up the dosage?" he questioned as the lines of pain tightened in Steve's face.

"Nah," he rasped. "'m good."

He leaned his head back, his eyes slipping closed.

"Er'one…'kay?"

Thor snorted. "It is novel, Captain, that you inquire about our health when you are the one in the healer's residence. We all have survived the battle with little more than scratches. You, however, caused us great distress."

There were too many big words in Thor's speech for Steve to understand it entirely but he managed to focus just enough to grasp the main points: team healthy; him, not so much.

"'m…sorry," he slurred, his speech heavy with exhaustion.

"Go back to sleep, Rogers," Natasha coached, recognizing the signs of the morphine drip kicking in again.

He wanted to stay awake because his team looked so concerned but he couldn't hold off his body's need for healing sleep any longer.

"'Kay," he muttered softly before the drugs pulled him under and his world faded to blackness.

* * *

"I came as soon as I heard!" Agent Phil Coulson panted, flashing his badge to the on-duty guard and limping into Steve's room, relying heavily on a wooden cane. "Bastard caretaker tried to hide it from me. And to think I was going to recommend him—"

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Clint interrupted, automatically standing and offering his chair to his handler.

Coulson shot his agent a scathing look. "How's Captain Rogers?" he demanded as he hobbled to his hero's bedside.

"Stable but unconscious."

"Could be worse," Coulson muttered as he hooked Barton's chair with his cane, dragged it closer to the hospital bed, and slowly lowered himself into the seat.

"Now," he turned to the other Avengers, frowning as he only counted four. "Wait, where's Stark?"

"He's being debriefed by Hill," Natasha replied.

Phil waved his hand dismissively. "He can add his part when he gets back. The rest of you, I want the entire story. Tell me everything you just told Hill."

The four did as Coulson asked, elaborating on every detail of the battle. Fifteen minutes in, Stark wandered back into the room, nodded a greeting to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and settled in the corner, tapping away on his phone.

Coulson leaned back in his chair as the Avengers finished up, steepling his fingers. "Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have any information about the maker of the robot army?"

"Fury assigned our best techs to it," Clint responded, "but they're having difficulty finding viable evidence. Most of the electronics were smashed beyond recognition."

"They'll find something. No one is that lucky," Coulson affirmed, his eyes flashing.

The room fell into an uneasy silence that was punctuated by the rhythmic beeps of the heart monitor. While nurses drifted in and out, checking vitals and bringing new bags for the IV, and agents stopped by to inquire about Steve's condition, the Avengers sat vigil beside their leader's bed. They silently agreed to leave only when absolutely necessary, but even then, someone always stayed behind to watch over Steve. Thor slipped away every few hours to make sure the probie was taking excellent care of Mjölnir while Tony disappeared more frequently to give Coulson plausible deniability while he and JARVIS attempted to access all the information S.H.I.E.L.D. had on the latest attack. Every hour on the hour, Clint and Natasha alternated random sweeps of the hallways and checked-in with Agent Hill for updates while Bruce conversed with Steve's doctors. The only one who didn't leave the entire afternoon was Phil Coulson, who happily remained by his hero's side, regaling him with tales of hard-fought eBay bidding wars for his vintage trading cards.

Though his condition remained stable, the soldier didn't wake again through any of this commotion. The younger doctor assured them, given Captain Rogers' injuries, that this was quite normal but the Avengers were not comforted by his words, knowing that a fully-healthy Captain would definitely be conscious and almost completely healed by this point.

So they sat quietly, meditating, hoping, and in some cases, praying, that Steve would wake.

Just after Natasha had just coerced a newbie agent into bringing them all dinner, Coulson's phone shrilled, the display flashing the words "Eyepatch" and a picture of Long John Silver.

"Stark," he growled, unclipping the device from his belt.

Tony shrugged. "I got bored."

"Yes, Director?" Coulson sat up straighter, subconsciously rubbing his healing injury site. "Not technically…It's a grey area…Now?" Indecision colored the agent's face as his gaze flickered between his unconscious hero and his cell phone. After a long internal debate, he sighed deeply, his allegiance to S.H.I.E.L.D. winning out.

"I'll be right there," he intoned dully, snapping his phone closed.

"What's going on?" Bruce questioned.

"Fury said if I was going to disobey my own doctor's orders, I might as well be working the case." Coulson rose to his feet with a deep scowl and hobbled toward the door. "He wants to read me in immediately."

He paused in the doorway and turned back. "I've got two words for you Stark," the agent said, pointing at the genius with the tip of his cane, "'taser' and 'SuperNanny'."

While the rest of the team looked on in confusion, Tony snorted and shook his head. "We'll look out for him, don't worry," he reassured Coulson as the agent limped away.

The Avengers sat with Steve for another uneventful hour until a timid nurse poked her head around the doorjamb. "Visiting hours are over," she squeaked.

Tony fixed her with a level gaze before adjusting the bolts on his newest device. "Ain't gonna happen sweetie."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist," a booming voice returned. Stark sighed and looked at the imposing body guard who filled the entire door, dwarfing the already petite nurse who quickly scampered off.

"I can assure you all that Captain Rogers will be safe here tonight," the guard said somberly, glancing around the room. "You have my word."

When the Avengers all remained seated, the guard spoke again, "Please don't make this difficult. I have the authority to physically escort you from the building if need be." It wasn't a threat. Just a fact.

"If it will make you feel better, I've set up a three-man team for regular perimeter checks and monitoring all incoming and outgoing persons," he continued. "No one can get in or out of here without flashing proper ID."

Stark put down his latest invention and held up his phone, snapping the guard's picture. A few beeps later, his facial recognition software returned a match. He stared at the background check for a long moment before deciding the man with no criminal record and a startling list of recognition medals from the army was probably the best guard Steve was going to get.

Tony swiped his finger to store the search and raised his phone a second time, as if snapping a picture of the security camera. He watched the numbers dance across the small screen before it flashed green and he found himself staring at the real-time surveillance video, straight from the camera's lens. Just to be sure, he waved one hand and saw a miniature him doing the same on his phone's screen.

"Anything happens in here, JARVIS," he pulled his fingers together and shrunk the footage to a quarter of his screen, "you call me, then the police. In that order."

"My circuits are not wired to do anything else, sir."

He turned back to the guard. "Fine, we'll go, but anything happens here, I will sue S.H.I.E.L.D. for all its worth." Then he paused, a wicked grin crossing his face. "Then we'll set Agent Romanov here free on your sorry ass."

The guard nodded. "I would expect nothing less. And, for the record, I am sorry I have to do this."

"It's your job," Banner shrugged.

Natasha got up from her chair and lithely arranged herself so she was less than an inch from the guard's face. To his credit, he didn't even flinch as she stared long and hard into his eyes.

"We can trust him," she announced after a long moment.

"Thank you, Agent Romanov," he responded, not at all fazed by her actions.

The guard watched them leave before putting a hand to his comm device and coordinating the beginning of the bi-hourly perimeter checks with the other men assigned to his detail. This wing was currently closed for renovations, making it the perfect place to house a healing superhero.

Little did he know, there was a man crouched on the roof, dressed in all black, typing furiously on his computer. He cracked the hospital encryption in record time and set about filmed the empty hallway and the sleeping target, deftly inserting that footage into the respective security feeds and running them in a continuous loop. Since he had been freezing on this roof for at least a half hour while the Avengers were still present, he had seen Stark implement his personal security measures and thus knew he had to keep the Avengers from returning before his task was complete.

He leaned back, jerking his neck from side to side before intertwining his fingers and straightening his arms, grimacing as his joints cracked. He flipped on the high-strength frequency jammer beside him, focusing its radius around his target's room. Knowing he only had a few moments now to complete his task, he settled back down and starting working on shutting down the infamous JARVIS. The AI fought back valiantly, but the shoddy electrical wiring (one of the main reasons the wing was undergoing renovations), combined with the inability to phone for help, offered the hacker an opening. It was a small opening, practically impenetrable, not enough to be a serious issue for anyone other than him. He seized the opportunity, focusing his attacks with more strength and ferocity.

"You really should get that fixed, Stark," he snickered as he typed the final command to permanently disabled JARVIS' ability to communicate with the hospital mainframe. He dialed back the strength of the jammer to avoid unnecessary detection and waited until the security guard had passed before he dropped through the skylight, landing lightly on his feet.

He glanced around to see if he'd been noticed before jimmying open a nearby supply closet, grabbing a doctor's jacket—just in case—and stepping into Rogers' room.

* * *

Happy was just pulling into the private parking at Stark Tower when Tony's phone buzzed.

"Agent Coulson is calling," JARVIS announced.

Stark sighed deeply but thumbed the "Accept" button.

"We need to talk, Stark," Phil Coulson demanded instantly. The footage was grainy, bouncing all over the screen.

"Nice to see you again Agent. How was the meeting with Number Two?" Stark asked glibly, hesitating when he noticing that Coulson was slightly out of breath.

"Shut up and listen," Coulson snapped. The video feed steadied as he crossed into an entryway and paused. "Three days ago, Captain Rogers was sent to retrieve…an object…for us. Earlier today, we intercepted this communique between the leader of the underground cell and a known associate." The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. The names had been blacked out with a thick Sharpie, but Stark's eyes were drawn to a picture on the lower half of the sheet: a nondescript picture of Steve Rogers, not entire dissimilar to a driver's license or passport photo.

"Happy!" Tony ordered, without glancing away from the screen. "Back to the hospital! Step on it!"

"Right away sir!"

"How the hell did this happen?" Stark leveled the question at Coulson, barely maintaining his calm.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent pulled another sheet of paper from his pocket. He moved the camera closer, the picture sliding slowly into focus. It was the image of Steve running, cradling his dislocated shoulder. The timestamp read three days ago. "Rogers didn't get away clean."

"Why haven't we heard about this?" Stark's voice was dangerously low.

"Need to know. We tried to contain the associate at the airport but he beat our gate check."

"What time?"

"Two hours ago."

Stark was about to disconnect the call when Coulson shouted, "Wait!"

"What!?" The genius hissed.

"We have intel that states he is skilled in information recovery."

Stark cursed and threw the phone against the padded seatback. A thought occurred to him and he picked up the small device, glancing at the security footage in the upper corner. He noticed the distinct lack of subtle movements—position shifts, twitching limbs, et cetera. In fact, the more closely he looked, the easier it was for him to see it was the same few moments being run over and over again.

He didn't know how someone had did it, but he'd been hacked.

"Happy, I don't care if you break every traffic law there is. Get me to that hospital ASAP."

The limo screeched forward, leaving a trail of burning rubber on the asphalt.

"JARVIS, locate the Avengers. Steve's in trouble."


	6. Chapter 6

The back of a meaty hand connected with Steve's cheekbone, the sharp stinging cruelly yanking him from unconsciousness. He bit back a moan as his head throbbed unbearably.

He heard a second sharp slap and his other cheek began to burn.

"Wake up Captain," an unfamiliar voice coaxed.

Only through deep concentration was he able to lift one thousand-pound eyelid to find himself staring at a greyish blob. His resolve faltered as the aching in his head increased and his eyes threatened to slip closed. Barely grasping onto consciousness, he focused on the greyish mass, which slowly shifted into the barrel of a very large gun.

"So nice of you to join us," a voice filtered through his sluggish awareness.

"Wat'd you…want…" Steve slurred, trying to lift his hands to his pounding head. He was able to raise them about three inches before rough restraints bit into his wrists. He yanked at them weakly but was unable to break the thick leather.

It was then he noticed the odd silence in the room. There was no beeping of monitors and he didn't feel the cold electrodes on his chest or the pinch of the IV in the back of his hand. Confused, he raised his gaze and squinted at the man in front of him, who was wearing a lab coat without an identification badge.

A feral grin spread across the intruder's face and he stepped forward, nestling the gun against Steve's forehead. "I want you to tell me where the package is."

The words drifted in one ear and practically out the other. The man wasn't making any sense.

He felt the gun move away from his face and saw the man smile grotesquely. His brain urged him to move, but his drug-addled limbs wouldn't comply.

The grip of the gun slammed into his cheekbone, whipping his head around, and a coppery liquid spread through his mouth, coating his teeth and lips. His head ached with a new passion as bright starbursts danced in front of his darkening vision.

"Focus up, Captain," the man sneered. "Tell me what I need to know, and I won't have to kill you."

Despite the excruciating pain drilling into his brain, Steve snorted. "'m…sure…" he spat, around a mouthful of blood.

The gun was placed against his forehead once again, the safety clicking off. "Let me jar your memory: you broke into our headquarters three days ago and stole a package. I need it back. You don't tell me, and I kill you, then work my way through your little Avengers then into S.H.I.E.L.D. until I get what I need. So you tell me, Super Soldier. What's your call?"

The neurons in his brain were firing, but Steve seemed to be missing the connection. "I dun…" he stammered, "I j'st don't…"

The man grinned, pressing the barrel harder against his skull. "That'll be your loss."

There was a booming sound and Rogers' assailant screamed in pain as a bullet tore through his upper chest. The S&W dropped from limp fingers as the man fell to ground, his hand clutching at his bloody shoulder.

Steve slowly lifted his head and spied a buff security guard standing at the doorway, his weapon smoking.

"You all right, Captain?" the guard asked, keeping his weapon pointed at the wounded intruder. He took a few steps forward and kicked the other man's gun out of reach.

"Uh-huh," Steve grunted, glancing lazily at the intruder who was writhing on the ground. Suddenly, he saw the assailant grin and, for reasons he couldn't explain, panic lanced through his system.

All he knew was that he had to warn the guard.

He forced his head around, locking gazes with the security guard who had tilted his head slightly to speak into his walkie-talkie.

"L'kout!" the soldier shouted around a dry and cottony mouth.

His cry echoed throughout the eerily silent room and the guard's finger tightened on the trigger as he refocused on Steve's assailant.

It was too late.

With startling quickness, the intruder reached for his ankle and launched a shiny Ka-Bar from bloody fingers. Steve thrashed against his restraints, an incoherent cry tearing from his lips as the knife thunked into the guard's unprotected thigh. He wavered for a brief second before his leg gave out and he smacked unceremoniously into the tile floor.

The assailant sprang to his feet and covered the distance between him and the guard in record time. While the injured guard attempted to fire his weapon again, the intruder viciously kicked him in the face. The man struggled to remain conscious, but after a moment, his eyes rolled into his head and his body slackened.

The intruder spun around, his grin grotesque. "Now, Captain Rogers," he hissed. "Tell me where the package is."

"No," Steve spat with false bravado. He wasn't exactly sure what the man was talking about, but he did know that if he was going through such great lengths to get it back, whatever it was must have been pretty important.

The man reached down, picked up the standard-issue Glock and trained it on the unconscious security guard.

"Tell me what I want to know," he demanded, "or I shoot your friend."

"I…can't," Rogers forced out. Even if he wanted to answer, his mind was too muddled by the painkillers and what he was almost positive was a concussion to remember exactly what the man wanted.

He pulled again on his restraints and thought he may have heard a small tear, but it was hard to discern through the ringing in his ears.

The man clicked off the safety. "One more chance Captain."

"No!" Steve strained at his wristbands, desperate to do something, anything. He felt something snap within him, bringing a sheer wave of agony with it. It traveled throughout his person and the fire, though originally painful, dulled into a constant warmth, leaving behind copious amounts of energy. He yanked his restraints one last time and was surprised to feel the thick leather split.

Without thinking, he lurched off the bed and slammed into the armed man. Caught off guard, the assailant faltered and the two landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

Their momentum carried them into a lopsided barrel roll, both men vying for the position farthest from the floor. As pain lanced through his skull, Steve reached shakily for the gun and managed to wrap his hand around his attacker's wrist.

They crashed into a wall cabinet, the impact throwing them apart and sending the Glock skittering across the room. The breath whooshed out of Rogers' lungs as he smacked into the laminate flooring. He lay there for a brief second, focused entirely on drawing air into his lungs, until he heard groaning and swearing from a few feet away.

In his current condition, he knew he'd never be able to win a fist fight with his attacker so he gritted his teeth, pulled himself to his knees, and crawled drunkenly towards the closest weapon: the intruder's S&W.

As his fingers closed around the grip, a boot buried itself in his side, cruelly stealing away the little breath he had managed to gain. Gasping for air, Steve instinctively reached out to protect his torso. The assailant reared back to kick him a second time and Rogers surprised even himself when he managed to grasp a leather combat boot. Years of training exercises kicked in and his right leg was moving before he had time to absorb the situation. His leg connected with the intruder's ankle, knocking his weight-bearing leg out from under him.

The man dropped like a stone, barely managing to avoid smacking his head on the tile. Through a haze, Rogers clambered over and attempted to punch him in the jaw. With his current strength, his knuckles barely brushed the attacker's cheek but the momentum still enough to snap the other man's head around. Instead of throwing a second punch, he changed tactics and reached for the pressure points on the man's neck.

When his fingers were just inches away, a meaty paw closed around his, shoving it off to the side and additionally throwing off Steve's balance. Rogers instinctively closed his eyes as the sudden change in direction send the world spinning around him.

The intruder took advantage of Steve's momentary weakness and threw himself left, turning midair so the soldier ended up pressed against the floor. The other man easily straddled him and pinned him against the cold tile.

A fist collided with his eye and he felt his brow split.

"Not so super now, are we Captain?" the man laughed deeply, drawing his hand back for another hit.

Instead of responding, Steve bit back the rising nausea and flattened out his hand, thrusting the side into his attacker's windpipe. The intruder's eyes bulged and his hands clutched at his throat.

Steve continued the motion and chopped at the angry graze on the top of the man's shoulder. With a sharp cry of pain, the assailant shifted, allowing Steve to quickly squirm out of his hold and dive for the gun.

He grabbed the S&W, still facing away from his attacker, when red and gold shifted into his vision and he heard a familiar metallic voice announce, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Breathing hard, Steve glanced upwards, spying none other than Iron Man standing in the doorway, his right arm extended and the palm repulsor glowing.

He flipped onto his back, his gun at the ready, to see the man lowering a standard issue Glock—the security guard's weapon—that Steve mistakenly thought had landed in the other direction.

The soldier's heart skipped a beat as he realized what would have happened if his teammates hadn't shown up.

Clint and Natasha were already training weapons on the attacker, shouting for him to get on his knees and lower his weapon. Natasha's eyes glittered dangerously as she kicked the weapon away, her stance practically begging the intruder to disobey so she would be justified in shooting him.

The situation now under control, the momentary burst of adrenaline gushed out of his system, leaving behind an exhausted, battered soldier. He lay down on the cold flooring, gasping for air.

God, everything hurt.

"Get in here, Banner!" Iron Man called, not taking his eyes off the intruder.

The slightly green doctor rounded the corner instantly, dropping immediately to Steve's side. Within seconds, the other two security guards brushed past them, standing slightly behind Barton and Romanov and waiting for further directives from the master assassins.

"'m fine," Rogers waved Banner away, pointing shakily toward the injured security guard. "T'ke 'are of 'im."

Banner gently placed his hand on Steve's jaw, palpating the throbbing bone before carefully examining the cut on his eyebrow. He noticed Rogers' hand wrapped protectively around his chest and gently pulled a burning arm away, feeling the soldier's ribs as well.

Determining Steve was indeed fine for the moment, he knelt beside the security guard and reached for a pulse.

"We need a damn doctor!" he hollered. "This is a hospital, isn't it?"

"Medics are en route," a security guard announced without looking away from the unarmed intruder. Barton signaled with his left hand and the two guards holstered their weapons, roughly cuffing the assailant's hands behind his back before lifting him off the ground. "We'll take care of him until the police arrives."

"Call S.H.I.E.L.D." Iron Man ordered, his face screwed up in disgust as he realized what he had just said.

The two guards nodded, shoving the cuffed perpetrator from the room. In the same moment, the medics burst into the room and split into two teams: the ones surrounding a gurney raced for the injured security guard while the others peeled off and headed toward Steve, who kept insisting he was okay.

"Shut up and let them look you over," Stark finally snapped.

The super soldier's hazy blue eyes flashed and he tensed noticeably, the vein in his neck visibly throbbing. He didn't complain again, though, and responded to the doctor's questions with curt, one-word answers.

Tony lifted off the Iron Man faceplate, knowing snapping at Cap was wrong, but right now, he was so furious at this situation he wasn't really thinking straight. He was furious the hospital had forced them to leave when it wasn't able to protect one of their own—furious they hadn't been informed when the room had become compromised.

He saw a gurney barreling towards him and stepped out of the doorway to let it pass. As it went by, his suit alerted him to a soft touch on his gauntlet and he glanced down to see the guard latching loosely onto his forearm.

"I…I'm…s'ry," he panted. Those small words pushed his body past its limit and he slacked unconscious into the bedding. The bloodstained hand slipped from the Iron Man suit, only to be caught by Tony and laid gently in the bed.

"We need to get him into surgery," he overheard the lead doctor announce and felt a twang of regret for the anger he had directed towards the injured man.

Deep down, he knew the guard wasn't responsible—he knew the man hadn't been standing idly by while Steve had been attacked, considering the very real probability he would bleed out during surgery—but that didn't stop tendrils of resentment from bubbling through.

Truth be told, he knew the guard had done his best in a very ugly situation. He _knew_ that, but he just couldn't accept that this had happened since he and the other Avengers had agreed to leave.

He sighed deeply and leaned against the doorway, watching as medics applied a butterfly bandage to Steve's eye. The head dressing was long gone and a second medic was deftly inserting a row of stitches to reclose the gash. The super soldier winced as the needle pinched into his skin, his posture radiating tension in almost tangible waves, but he sat in silence and stared blankly at the scene in front of him.

Tony poked his head back into the room to see Clint and Natasha logging every detail of the crime scene with photographs and digital video recordings.

"He needs a new set of chest X-rays and an updated head CT," he overheard the medic say to Banner. "Then we'll reassign him to a new wing, under greater—"

"You'll move him to Stark Tower," Tony interrupted.

The doctor whipped around. "We'll what?"

Stark sighed, dramatically glancing upwards as if to seek strength, and stepped into the room. "You're doing a bang-up job of protecting him here. We have better security and all the equipment necessary to take care of Rogers while he heals."

The doctor faltered. "But I can't—"

Steve took this opportunity to offer his personal opinion. "You don' need…ta do that," he rasped.

It took great control to bite back the sarcastic response Stark was ready to dish out. "You're right," he said finally, his voice unusually even. "I don't."

Steve's eyebrows furrowed as his concussed brain tried to make sense of what Stark actually meant.

The doctor opened his mouth to protest.

"Save it," Tony cut him off, raising one glowing glove.

The man muttered unintelligibly under his breath, words Stark was sure were of the four-letter variety. "I'll get the paperwork necessary to sign him out. Dr. Banner, you'll prepare him for the x-rays?"

"Of course," Bruce replied, grabbing Steve's elbow and helping him upright. "Right this way, Captain."

Rogers shot Tony a curious glance as he left but was whisked away before he could speak.

Stark turned his attention back into the room. He glanced up at the security camera, noting the lack of superficial damage, and followed the wires leading out of the back into the ceiling, just above the door frame. He stepped into the hallway and spied the skylight which was slightly ajar.

"Hey Legolas," he called, "get your ass over here."

He heard slow, tempered footsteps behind him. "What do you need Stark?" Hawkeye groused.

"Hop up there," Stark said, pointing.

"Sure!" Clint took a few steps back and pretending to launch himself into the air superhero-style with one arm extended over his head. He cleared less than six inches before "landing" and shaking his head in amazement.

"Hell no," he responded seriously. "It doesn't work like that. I've got more important things to do right—"

"He came in through there," Tony replied, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice for the second time today: a personal best.

Barton cocked his head. "How could you—"

"Just hop up there. He was planning to go out that way, so his equipment still has to be up there."

"Yeah," Clint nodded slowly. "Okay."

He gently laid his camera against the wall. "I'm going to need a boost."

Stark bent down, reaching out his hands, palms up. Barton stepped onto them and Iron Man lifted the archer, who barely managed to knock away the skylight before he was propelled through it.

He hopped onto the roof, spotting an olive green duffel and a smaller grey box with a variety of knobs and switches on it that was whirring softly. He carefully examined the box before reaching out one gloved hand and flicking a red power switch.

As the whirring slowly died down, he heard a weak but persistent beeping which he recognized as his ringtone. He pulled his phone from his pocket, reading the notifications for the six missed calls and three text messages. Since none of the messages were life-threatening, he snapped a few pictures of the scene before placing the grey box into the duffel and heading for the skylight.

"It's a high-strength freq jammer," he called down to Stark, whose suit was shrinking into a red and gold briefcase. "Been blocking all incoming and outgoing messages. Check your phone. Fury's called at least three times."

"There a computer up there?"

"Yup," Barton lay on his stomach, lowering the duffel down to Stark. Tony nodded once and walked away, hoisting the bag over his shoulder.

"Wait," the archer hollered to the receding billionaire. "How am I supposed to get down?"

"Stark?" he shouted as the glass door whooshed closed behind him. "Stark!"

* * *

The room was so silent its occupants could have heard a pen drop in the next office.

"Are you sure?" Director Fury asked, his eyes literally shooting daggers into the report he was clutching.

"We just confirmed it a few minutes ago. We've been testing and retesting all night, sir," a young lab technician stuttered, taking a few cautionary steps backwards.

"You are 100% sure this isn't a mistake?" Fury snapped.

"Believe me, sir, I wish I was wrong," she paused, clearing her throat before continuing. "But we aren't. We've had other top-rated doctors and scientists from around the world confirm our diagnosis before we presented it to you."

Fury handed back the folder and exhaled loudly. He pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the impending headache.

"No one else knows about this?"

The tech shook her head quickly. "No, sir. You're the first."

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"We need our best men and women working on this right now," he ordered.

"Yes Director," she squeaked before running out of the office.

Three minutes later, Fury stomped into an overcrowded conference room, making eye contact with every one of the shocked scientists who were milling around aimlessly. He walked around to the front of the table and motioned for everyone to sit.

"I'm only going to say this once so you'd better be listening. We have a situation that must be treated with the highest level of secrecy. You've been assembled since you have the highest security clearance on this craft. This situation is classified as a level one emergency. Until this matter is resolved, none of you will be leaving the helicarrier, so get on your cell phones and call your families—you won't be going home for a while. Anyone who wants to leave now may, no hard feelings. This is a one-time offer."

He quickly scanned the room. No one stood but everyone was staring expectantly at him, waiting for him to continue. Finally, a brave scientist leaned forward at the far end of the table.

"Sir, may I ask what this is about?"

"Captain Roger's body has stopped producing the serum," he held up his hand as the room gasped collectively. "We need to figure out how to resynthesize the formula and fast. You will be surrendering your cell phones once you have phoned home. That call will be monitored. If anyone catches wind of this, we will have an even greater catastrophe on our hands. Are we clear?"

The room nodded.

"Well, what are you waiting for!?" he shouted, seeing everyone still sitting. "Find me a way to reproduce the serum!"

The scientists jumped up, crashing into one another in their hurry to leave.

"What's our next move, sir?" Agent Hill asked, holding a clipboard tightly to her chest.

"You stay here," Fury demanded, tapping furiously into small device. "Keep an eye on all of them. I want this solved quickly and quietly. When Romanov and Barton are done at the scene, pull them into observation. I want to see if they know anything that will help us figure out who tried to kill Rogers."

There was a foreign emotion on her boss' face, giving her pause. "And what about you, sir?" she questioned after a brief moment of silence.

"This kind of news needs to be given in person," Fury growled, stepping into the elevator, a deep scowl carved into his face as he realized what he needed to do. "I need to have a talk with Captain America."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought!**


	7. Chapter 7

Hours later, a black car pulled into the hospital parking lot and Tony Stark stepped out of its plush interior. He had been in his lab, attempting to break the layers of heavy encryptions on the assailant's computer when Banner had called. The physicist informed him that Steve's doctors were finished with the tests and he was ready to be transferred to the Tower under the Avengers' escort. Stark had quickly instructed JARVIS to continue attacking the machine and had returned to the hospital.

He nodded his head at Natasha who was dressed in civilian's clothes and was standing outside the entrance, silently evaluating everyone who passed by. She tilted her head slightly and Tony followed the angle to see Hawkeye perched on the second floor of the parking garage, mumbling into a walkie-talkie. He didn't know where Thor was, but since he was a betting man, he'd put money on the fact that the god was searching for any Asgardian means of helping Steve.

The wide doors slid open and he waltzed into the hospital, intending to bypass the information desk. The hospital employees apparently had other plans because, two steps later, a large hand clasped his bicep and yanked him towards a temporary security station in the corner.

"Hey!" he yelped as gloved hands began patting his sides. He tried to pull away but a large guard stepped into his path.

"It's standard procedure now if you want to see Captain Rogers."

Tony pushed his sunglasses down his nose and fixed the guard with his best glare. "You know who I am, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark and I am sorry for the inconvenience," the man said, not looking the least bit apologetic.

Stark raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, muttering, "You asked for it," under his breath.

Tony didn't stop speaking through the entire patdown, offering his best but also his dirtiest jokes delivered with his signature snark. Though they did not respond to any of his quips, the slight reddening in the guards' faces was worth the satisfaction.

_I hope you're thankful, Rogers,_ he groused as he reluctantly handed over his driver's license. After all, he was going through all this just to get the soldier out of the hospital.

"My hair? Really?" he groaned as the man lightly patted the spiky tips. "I know it's fabulous but this is getting a bit ridiculous," he rolled his eyes dramatically and spotted the younger guard reaching for his red and gold briefcase.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he cautioned.

The guard looked up quickly, quickly pulling back his hands. "I have to—"

"If you don't want to end up extra crispy, I'd leave it alone."

The guard looked like he was going to insist, but the senior officer shook his head and handed back Tony's identification.

"It was nice talking to you too!" Stark shouted over his shoulder as he was rudely pushed down into abandoned hallway.

The heels of his shoes clicked ominously as he walked down the corridor flanked by two armed guards. He was required to show his ID to two more sentinels before they opened the reinforced steel door of the quarantine wing, revealing a large foyer with a two rooms at the far end. The thick door whooshed closed behind him and he heard the lock click.

He was halfway across the empty room when a far door opened and a black-clad figure clomped out.

Stark's eyes narrowed as he recognized Nick Fury, anger burning in his chest. If Coulson had just found out that Steve was compromised, then the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. most certainly had known.

_And he hadn't done a damn thing about it,_ Tony thought as he tightened his grip on the Iron Man briefcase until his knuckles turned white.

"Stark," Fury nodded by way of greeting.

Tony clenched his jaw, barely managing to keep the vivid description of what he thought of the director to himself. This wasn't the time. He was here to collect Steve and Banner and escort them safely back to the tower. Then, he would pay a visit to Fury and give him a piece of his mind.

Well, that was the plan, anyway.

All reason flew out the window when Tony peered through the small window to see Steve angled upright in the hospital bed, staring blankly at the far wall. His stomach clenched painfully when he saw the emptiness in the Captain's eyes and the pained look of disbelief on his face. The super soldier looked like he had just found out Santa Claus wasn't real.

For some unbeknown reason, that look was Stark's undoing. Rage burned through him and he knew this confrontation couldn't wait.

"FURY!" he bellowed, sprinting down the hallway, grabbing the back of the Director's cape and spinning him around. Stark forced Fury against the wall and slammed his forearm into the darker man's windpipe, his other hand fisted in the rather soft material of the Director's suit.

"What the hell did you tell him?"

Fury viciously pushed his assailant backwards, attempting to twist out of Stark's hold, but the inventor held fast. "Release me Stark," he demanded, his voice low.

"Not until I get some answers," he wrapped his hand more tightly in the fabric. "Now, what did you tell Rogers?"

"It's. None. Of. Your. Business," Fury snarled.

"Bullshit." Tony shoved his forearm deeper into Fury's throat, his eyes flashing murderously. "_You_ made this my business when you put us on the same team. _You _made this my business when your lackeys dropped him off at my tower without making sure he had proper medical attention. But most of all, _you_ made this _my_ business when you found out that his mission wasn't finished and you refused to tell the rest of us. Someone's gotta protect your golden boy and right now it sure as hell ain't you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Fury threw himself forward, freeing himself from Stark's grasp. Breathing heavily, he straightened his suit. "I'm going to take into account what just happened, Stark, and not mention this to anyone."

Tony yanked his own jacket straight, stepped closer to Fury and stabbed a finger into the Director's face.

"You owe me," he growled, his eyes cold and dangerous and, for the first time, Fury felt genuinely afraid of what the billionaire could do to him. "What. Is. Wrong. With. Rogers."

There was a long moment of silence as the men glared menacingly at each other. Eventually, Fury cleared his throat. "You can't expect me to believe you didn't already know…"

Tony balked, his anger dissipating as the worst possible scenarios began racing through his mind. He knew he was ignoring the obvious but he _needed _it to be something else. It couldn't be the—

Then, he saw Fury shake his head, slowly, almost mournfully, his face taught with an emotion Tony had never seen there before. If he wasn't mistaken, it was most similar to…sadness.

His heart skipped a beat as his lightning fast mind connected the pieces.

"No," he breathed, a slight note of desperation in his voice.

Fury nodded. "Our best techs confirmed it earlier this morning," he spoke softly, his tone filled with regret. "They're working on synthesizing the serum again based on Erskine's notes."

"I want in," Tony announced without skipping a beat. "And I know Bruce will too."

Fury looked like he was going to deny Stark when the billionaire interrupted, "You don't get a choice."

"I do not take orders from you, Stark," the Director scowled. "I will _allow_ you to work with my team, but they report to me. Not to Dr. Banner and certainly not to you."

Tony was about to retort when his phone began to buzz.

"Agent Romanov is calling, sir," JARVIS announced and, despite his current situation, Tony knew it would be wise of him to answer.

"This isn't over," he mouthed to the Director as he thumbed the accept button and Natasha's face appeared onscreen.

"What is wrong with Rogers?" the Widow questioned lightly but, even through the grainy video feed, Tony saw her jaw working.

"Give me that," Fury swiped at the phone but Stark held it out of reach.

"There's no use denying it!" They heard Clint shout. "We heard everything!"

Fury and Stark froze, staring at each other in confusion.

"How did you—"

"Your suit."

Stark pulled his briefcase to eye level, spying the small black square affixed to the bottom.

He pulled the phone close and glowered at the archer. "Payback's a bitch, Barton."

The screen dipped wildly and there was great shouting. "I demand to know what illness has befallen our Captain!" Thor boomed, pushing his way into view.

Tony swiftly dropped his phone in the Director's outstretched hand, raising his own and stepping backwards so Fury couldn't try to hand it back.

The other man pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off an impeding headache before responding, "Rogers' body has stopped creating the serum."

Thor inhaled sharply, having been given the quick summary of how Steve had become a national icon shortly after the god pledged his allegiance to the Avengers' Initiative. "I know not of what magic you use to project your guise, but I wish you here. You have made a foolish decision that has caused the injury of our Captain. In my land, our leaders are strong, caring…like Steve," he added in almost a whisper.

Then his expression hardened, his normally caring blue eyes morphing into chips of ice. "I demand you appear so we can duel for Steve's honor."

Fury blanched.

"I think we all feel the same way," Clint spoke up, crossing his arms and leaning back stoically. The Director's glare turned murderous, locking onto his usually obedient agent, but Barton didn't look away.

After a long moment, Nick took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose more tightly. "We can argue semantics all night, but at the end of the day, I wouldn't change the play. I've fought for this group, for all of you. You've asked for your freedom and I gave it to you. The Council would much rather track you under circumstances I cannot imagine you would find favorable," he added with a rather pointed look towards Stark. "I…" he scowled, "_trust_ all of you to make your own decisions—you're big boys and girls. Rogers said he could fight and I believed him."

A door flew open behind them, startling both Stark and Fury, and Banner stepped out of the room adjacent to Steve's. "Did you think he could fight with a grade II concussion and his previous injuries?" the physicist asked. "Because that was his condition last night when the 'retrieval expert' broke in."

Fury took Bruce's arrival without so much as a raised eyebrow but he frowned at the doctor's insinuation. "We were trying to contain the situation before that happened. We were moments away from tracking his—"

"That doesn't change anything. You still didn't warn us." Stark snapped. "In case no one has filled you in, Rogers was about two and a half seconds from a bullet between the eyes. He's alive because _we _got there in time."

"If you're looking for an apology, you won't get it. Yesterday, I called a play and he ran the field. End of story." Fury shoved the phone back at Stark. "And while you're sitting around blaming me for what happened last night, know this: I've had my men going over every piece of evidence from Rogers' mission. _That's_ why we were able to get a lead on their plan. _That's_ why we were able to track their assassin. And _that's _why you were able to 'get there in time'."

With that, he spun on one heel and stormed towards the door. Banner broke into a light jog, quickly passing the Director and stepping into his path, his arms crossed firmly in front of his chest.

"I want to be on your team," he announced softly.

"Do I need to remind you, Dr. Banner, that your doctorate is not medical?"

"Do I need to remind you what happens when I get angry?" Bruce returned, his tone level.

Fury swallowed hard, his face contorting in displeasure. "Fine," he spat. "I'll have some of the samples sent to Stark Tower."

"Not good enough," Stark cut in again. "We want to see what you meant by Rogers' body stopped producing the serum. Now."

The Director aimed his searing glare at the inventor. "You do not—"

There was loud commotion in the hallway, interrupting the rest of his reprimand. Stark automatically reached for the small latch on his metal bracelet while Banner tensed, his eyes tinged with green.

With a loud grinding sound, the door swung unevenly open and Thor stepped into the hallway, followed quickly by the master assassins. The Norse god's expression was downright terrifying as he spied the Director and stepped angrily towards him, only to be barely restrained by Barton and Banner.

"What does that mean for his position at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Romanov questioned, positioning herself between the thrashing Thor and Fury.

To his credit, the Director was again unfazed by the appearance of the other Avengers. "Captain Rogers will always have a place at S.H.I.E.L.D.," he replied evenly. "As I told Stark, we have our best technicians working to recreate the serum."

"I wasn't kidding, Eyepatch. I want to see what you mean," Tony repeated, completely ignoring the other Avengers' interruption and tapping his foot impatiently.

Fury exhaled loudly and pulled a phone from his pocket. The Avengers were silent while he dialed a number.

"Put Jesse on," he ordered. "Show them," he demanded after a moment. He pulled the phone away from his ear and held it up so all could see.

Onscreen, a young man came into view. He smiled while he adjusted the camera and flipped it around, training it on two blood samples that were being magnified onto a large white screen.

"The left was taken at Captain Rogers' last physical," he said with a slight Australian accent. "See the thicker blood cells? We believe those to contain the serum. As you can see, their saturation is extremely high, almost one in every pair of red blood cells."

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"Now look at yesterday's samples. The red blood cells are healthy but not as vibrant as the ones with the serum. There are hardly any of the larger red blood cells and, if you look closely at the white blood cell count, you can see it is much higher in the last batch of samples. Also, upon further analysis, we discovered the white cells are clinging to the plumper cells, leading us to assume they are attacking the serum. We're not sure why, but it's obvious there are few serum-infused cells left."

"How long has this been going on?"

The tech cleared his throat. "We weren't able to differentiate them before, given their high concentration, but, as you can see, the difference now is obvious. Given this information, we've been able to look back and realize the quantity of the serum cells has been dwindling since his last physical but has all but dropped off in the last few days."

"What progress have you made?"

The doctor shrugged. "Nothing yet but we're doing our best. The live samples are giving us the best opportunity to proceed. Assuming the serum was only meant to last Rogers' natural lifespan, it's actually quite amazing it was still working after he woke from the ice."

He flipped around the camera and looked directly at Bruce. "We'd be honored to have you, Dr. Banner. You as well, Mr. Stark," he added as an afterthought.

"We're on our way," Tony announced. He and Banner walked into the hallway, motioning impatiently while Fury remained still.

"Waiting on you," the genius snapped.

Fury reluctantly stepped forward. "When this is over, Stark…" he trailed off, leaving his threat unfinished.

"Yeah, yeah. I know." Stark crossed his eyes at the Director before turning back to his teammates. "Barton, Romanov, Thor, you handle transport for Rogers back to Stark Tower. Make sure he sleeps. Keep him hydrated, fed—hell, show him how the Xbox works or something—but keep him distracted. Basically, don't let him out of your sight."

Natasha waved her hands at them, shooing them away. "We can handle this Stark."

"We want regular check-ins—"

"I will do something unspeakable if you don't leave this very instant," Romanov vowed, her expression deadly serious.

"Leaving," Stark squeaked, backpedalling so quickly he almost ran into Fury who was standing in the same square footage as the guard positioned outside his room.

"I want 24/7 monitoring on Captain Rogers until he leaves. He so much as coughs, we need to know about it, you read me?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier saluted in perfect formation.

Fury waited until the two scientists had left the corridor before leaning his head against a wall and exhaling deeply. Despite what Stark believed, telling Captain America he was no longer a superhero was practically the worst thing he had ever had to do. He wasn't just ruining the dreams of some agent he'd never met before—he knew the man behind the cowl, the man he had fought for since they had discovered him in the ice. Even though the soldier hadn't expressed any outward emotion, Fury had latched onto the aura of sadness, confusion and uncertainly radiating from Rogers.

The Director yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed Hill.

He didn't even wait for her to speak before snapping, "Whatever we have the techs doing, I need it done faster and quieter. We need a cure for Rogers—immediately."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you all for your wonderful support****!**

* * *

From the other side of the one-way glass, Natasha Romanov watched Captain Rogers' attacker shift uncomfortably in the center of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main interrogation room. His fingerprints had identified him as Jason Eldridge: US citizen; grew up in Columbus, Ohio; one sister; a few counts of petty theft on his juvenile record. The day after he graduated from college, he'd joined the Marines Corps Reserve—apparently, his bachelors in computer science was more valuable to his country than his skill with a weapon. After being honorably discharged, he'd bounced around between white-collar jobs before landing a part-time security position at a local insurance company.

"Are we any closer to finding out who hired him?" she raised her voice so the technician behind her could hear.

"No ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am."

"Yes ma'—Agent Romanov," the technician named Hardison stuttered.

Natasha nodded approvingly. "Were we able to get anything off Eldridge's laptop?"

"We're working on it. _Buuuut_ it's heavily encoded so we haven't been able to recover much so far—each folder and file is protected by a unique password with a different encryption. Having said that, we _were_ able to find the program that he used to disable surveillance in Captain Rogers' room, and, it's surprisingly simple."

"Then why was he successful?" she interrupted.

Hardison cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I misspoke. I meant the program was simple in comparison to the complexity of JARVIS. It is by no means elementary.

"In response to your original question, the wing was under construction for faulty wiring, and Eldridge preyed on that, blocking all outgoing signals until he could disable them himself. He must have looped the video footage as well since no one saw the disturbance in the camera feed."

"Anything else?"

"No...Agent."

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. "It's been three days."

"Yes, Agent Romanov, but between this and replicating the Captain's serum, the entire technical department is spread rather thin."

"We're aware both cases are of the highest priority," Agent Phil Coulson's voice crackled over the computer's intercom, "which is why we're calling in reinforcements. Hardison, you've been temporarily transferred to the Cyber Division. Agent Ford is expecting you immediately."

The technician nodded furiously. "Yes, sir, Agent Coulson." He sprang up from his chair and hurried towards the door.

"Do we have any reason to suspect a future attempt on Captain Rogers' life?" Coulson growled after Hardison had left.

Natasha grabbed a newly printed file off the desk and flipped through it. "Nothing's come across the channels. But Stark's security is top-notch. As of a few months ago, it's self-sustaining, which apparently means what happened at the hospital can't happen there…or, at least, that's what he tells me. In any case, Barton will be back tomorrow and he'll join me in surveillance."

Coulson nodded thoughtfully. "Has Eldridge given us anything?"

"He says he doesn't know who hired him but hasn't given us much of a reason to trust him."

There was a brief pause before the senior agent spoke again. "I need answers Romanov…I believe that means it's your turn to question him."

Natasha nodded grimly. "Thank you sir," she replied before slipping out of observation.

In the hallway, she took a deep breath to center herself before she threw open the door to interrogation.

"Tell me what I need to know, Eldridge!" she stormed into the room and smashed her hand into the metal table, startling the dozing man across from her.

"We've been over this." He lifted one hand from the table and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I don—"

"You still haven't given me the answers I'm looking for," the Widow stalked around the table and stood directly behind the man. "Who hired you to kill Steve Rogers?"

"Standing in my blind spot. That's cute," the man rolled his eyes.

"Who. Hired. You." Natasha repeated slowly.

"I'm a US citizen—I know my rights. You shouldn't be still holding me."

Natasha grinned evilly. "You should have thought about that before you tried to murder a national icon."

"I've got nothing to say," the man went through the motion of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

"Let me clarify: you tried to kill an…acquaintance…of mine. That means I, and everyone on my team, want to see you in a body bag," she heard the man inhale sharply and leaned in so her mouth was inches from his ear.

"I'm not like those other interrogators S.H.I.E.L.D. has sent over the last two days," she whispered. "I've been given the carte blanche to get results."

She tapped him lightly on the cheek, grinning as he flinched, and pulled away. "I'm only going to ask you one more time," she walked to the other side of the room and deftly disconnected the security camera from its power supply. "Who hired you to kill Captain Rogers?"

He turned his head and stared directly at her. "I'm. Not. Telling. You. Anything."

Twenty minutes later, Natasha stepped out of interrogation, brushing a drop of blood off the sloppily-written list of Eldridge's previous clients. After much persuasion, he had also provided an off-shore bank account number used by the man who had hired him.

She was walking toward the elevator when a mousy woman wearing a pant suit stepped in front of her.

"Agent Romanov?"

Natasha shook her head and tried to sidestep the assistant but the woman matched her move.

"Director Fury wanted me to remind you that you're scheduled to teach the probie's martial arts class in thirty minutes."

"Please tell him I don't have time for that," she faked right and stepped left, sliding into the elevator just as the doors were closing. The assistant recovered quickly, spun around and stuck her arm between the closing rectangles. The doors detected the block and automatically reopened allowing her to step calmly into the elevator and smooth out her skirt.

"He said you'd say that. So he counters with this:" she paused and flipped open her binder. "'I am holding your upcoming vacation dates as collateral, to be given in full after the course has been completed,'" she recited verbatim.

Natasha froze—she had been planning that week off for months now. "He wouldn't."

"He did," the assistant nodded.

Romanov ran her hands through her hair and cursed continuously in Russian for a straight minute. The assistant blushed with the intensity of her words but didn't back away.

"Fine," Natasha slapped the sheet of paper from Eldridge against the assistant's clipboard. "I'll teach his class. But I need a full workup on each of those names by the time I'm finished along with the names and complete histories of every person who has ever put money into that account in the last five years. _If_ that's not done..." she purposefully left her threat unfinished.

The assistant nodded but her eyes were wide with fear.

"I will assign it to our best," she stuttered as the elevator doors slid open on the training level.

The floor was empty except for two men wrestling on blue gymnastics mats. Natasha took one look at their form, cursed again and walked briskly over to them.

"This is how it's done," the assistant heard the female assassin say.

The assistant winced as a sharp cry proceeded a deep thunking noise, instantly grateful that she had had another instructor during her training years.

* * *

The plane had barely touched down in Manhattan before Clint was hopping out, ignoring the ramp all together. A duffel bag full of hardware over his shoulder, he stormed into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s base, hastily palmed the scanner and brushed past Fury's receptionist.

"Sir, you don't have the—" she began, picking herself up from her seat and attempting to block his path.

Clint wasn't in the mood for interruptions: he had traveled to…well, he couldn't exactly disclose that…but it hadn't been a pleasurable experience. The day after Rogers had been released from the hospital, Fury had obtained the authorization for a full takeover of the compound Steve's mission had centered around. Barton, along with two full teams, had taken everyone into custody and had been methodically searching each and every computer, notebook or sketch pad for a clue to who had ordered the hit on Captain America. None of the twenty-one people currently employed by the facility knew any great detail about their boss; apparently, he stayed mostly out of sight, giving orders and instructions via emails or phone calls.

The compound had been hot, incredibly dirty and, as if that wasn't enough, Barton hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours. He wasn't going to be stopped by a receptionist who needed 24 hours' notice for appointments with the Director.

He spun around and she was forced to take a step back to keep from colliding with him. "This is G14 classified," he deadpanned, knowing there was no such classification level at S.H.I.E.L.D. "Fury's eyes only."

The receptionist's eyes widened and she nodded once as she pointed down the hall. "He's in his office."

Barton knocked once on Fury's door, didn't wait for a response, and pushed his way into the room.

"Agent Barton," the Director said, not looking the least bit surprised.

"Director," Clint swung the bag over his shoulder and dropped it on the desk. "Everything we could recover from the scene."

Fury pressed a button on his intercom and two agents rushed into the room, eagerly snatching up the duffel.

"Report."

"There wasn't much there. The employees were in the process of wiping the hard drives when we broke in but the techs believe they can restore the lost data."

He paused for a second. "I did manage to find this though," he reached into his personal backpack and withdrew a large plastic evidence bag with a bloody blue cowl in it.

He handed it to Fury who held it almost reverently before sliding open his bottom desk drawer with his foot and placing it inside.

"Anything else?"

"We believe we know how Steve was tracked to New York City." Clint pulled a sheaf of papers from his pack, all charred 8x10 photographs, and passed them to his boss. "We found these in the main computer room—managed to snag them before they were became ash.

"Don't worry, they're copies. The squints have the real ones," he clarified when Fury shot him a questioning look.

"This is the picture of Steve leaving the compound," he continued, pointing toward the shot of dark-blue clad soldier. "Based on relative ink dryness and the printer logs, we determined this was the first picture printed."

He hesitated. "It's not related but why did you change his uniform? Coulson was so proud of the original."

"We designed this one to be slimmer so it would fit under civilian clothes and we darkened the color to better protect him in stealth situations," Fury explained. "We wanted him to be able to perform more covert operations if necessary."

"The old one _was_ pretty bright," the agent nodded. "Anyway, this was the last picture that was printed." It was a very nondescript picture of Rogers, most likely from a passport or driver's license. "It's also the second picture sent to our hitman from someone on the base. The squints found the remnants of a facial recognition program on the compound's network and were able to positively confirm that the search that connected these two photographs was started there."

Barton stopped for a moment, waiting to hear his boss' thoughts, but Fury held up the final photo, a grainy CCTV still of an elderly man looking over a younger man's shoulder with the younger man pointing to a large computer screen, and shook it impatiently.

"Oh that," Clint smiled. "That's the pièce de résistance. The same techs who discovered the facial recognition program also found what appeared to be some viable security footage. They identified twenty-one people moving throughout the span of two days but we only took twenty into custody."

"He," Fury pointed toward the elderly man, "got away."

The grin dropped off Clint's face. "How did you—"

"If it wasn't important, you wouldn't have brought me the picture."

"He's the only one not accounted for," the archer reported sourly.

"Get the techs running his face—I want to know everything about this man by lunch time. And take this picture to Rogers. See if he recognizes him. You left—"

"—some of our probies there under Agent Larkin's supervision."

Fury nodded a few times while he flipped through the pictures he was holding. "Write it up, Barton."

"Yes, sir."

The Director turned back to his paperwork but Clint didn't leave the room.

"Yes, Barton?" he asked in annoyance, looking up after a moment.

"How is Captain Rogers?"

The Director stared curiously at his agent before suggesting, "Why don't you ask Stark or Banner?"

"They're not in charge of the research unit, sir."

"We haven't been able to find anything useful. They're running combinations of the reactants Erskine and Stark Senior used, but nothing's compatible with Rogers' cells."

Something akin to disappointment flitted across Barton's face.

"Very good, sir," he said as he turned and walked out of the room. As he passed the receptionist, he pulled out his phone and dialed Natasha.

"Barton," she acknowledged, panting slightly.

"Stop throttling the poor newbie, Tasha," Barton ordered.

"I don't see why Fury keeps assigning them to me. Not one has walked away yet."

The archer frowned as he heard a mild yelp. "I'm not sure that's a good thing."

"Fury wanted me to train them..."

"_Train_. Not maim."

He could hear Natasha shrugging on the other side of the line. "Same difference. What did you discover on your mission?"

"This and that. Meet me at Stark Tower. We have to talk to Steve about a possible lead."

He heard someone squeal before Natasha's breathing relaxed slightly. "Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation," he heard her instruct.

"Sure," she continued, in response to his invitation. "See you in twenty."

"Yes, ma'am," Clint replied with a mock salute.

"You're not in the army, Barton," she said knowingly before she hung up the phone.

"How…" he questioned, staring at the phone in shock.

After a moment, he shook his head and slipped his phone into his pocket. He made his way toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. parking garage, grabbed his bike from long-term parking, slipped out under the barrier gate before the attendants made him pay, and gunned the motor, heading for Stark Tower.

* * *

Steve Rogers was sitting upright in bed, his expression eerily vacant, when Natasha and Clint walked in almost a half hour later. The Widow was clad in a tight-fitting yoga ensemble that accentuated her curves and made the boy from Brooklyn fairly uncomfortable; it was hard to tell what Clint was actually wearing under all the dirt and grime that caked his clothes.

"How are you feeling, Rogers?" Natasha asked softly as she stepped into the room.

"Fine," he replied curtly but not unkindly.

"Well that's a start right?" Barton replied, trying to lighten the gloomy atmosphere.

"Yeah…I guess."

"Well, we just have a question for you about your last mission…if you're feeling up to it," the red-haired woman added quickly.

The Captain slowly lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "What do you want to know?"

Clint held out the same picture he had shown Fury and tapped the elderly man's head with his index finger. "You recognize him?"

Steve reached out for the picture and squinted at it. After a quick moment, he looked up and handed it back to Hawkeye. "I've never seen him."

"Are you sure he wasn't at the compound?"

"I just said I didn't see him," Steve suddenly snapped, the passive expression replaced by one of pure anger, "doesn't mean he wasn't there."

"Calm down, Cap," Barton raised a placating hand. "We just need to make sure. We believe he's the one who orchestrated the attack at the hospital."

They watched Steve take a deep breath in, clench his fists and slowly release them as he exhaled.

"I'm sorry," he said in a quiet voice. "I know this is important. You didn't deserve that. I just…don't know what's wrong with me."

Natasha saw the sullen look on his face and took a seat by his bed. She slowly reached out and laid her hand on his. "Nothing's wrong with you Steve. You've just hit a rough patch, so to speak. We've all been there."

_Not like this_, he thought but managed to flash the Widow a small smile of gratitude.

Without warning, the door flew open and Rogers' doctor walked into the room.

"How are we feeling to—Ooh, I'm sorry to interrupt," she amended when she saw her patient had company.

"No, it's all right, Dr. Bentley," the soldier assured her.

"We were actually just leaving." Natasha stood up and patted Steve's shoulder once before adding, "You'll get through this Cap." In the background, Clint nodded his agreement.

"I _was_ interrupting something," Dr. Bentley stated after the door had closed.

"I'd rather not discuss it."

The doctor shrugged but heeded her patient's wishes, focusing solely on his health.

Steve endured a slew of vital and reflex testing from the resident physician who buzzed around him, questions flying nonstop from her mouth; though he always answered truthfully, he was prone to using as few words as possible. She examined his previous contusions as well as the cuts on the back of his head and eyebrow, noting the wounds visibly knitting together. Finally, she checked his reaction time by waving a finger in front of his face and having him follow with just his eyes.

"Looking better, Steve…er, Captain," she amended hastily. She glanced downwards and scribbled in her notebook. "I'm going to schedule another scan for the next time you're at S.H.I.E.L.D.," she paused and flipped through a file, "which is tomorrow. Excellent. Once that comes back negative, we can get you up and running. I'm sure you're tired of being confined to this room."

"Yeah," Steve replied lifelessly after a beat. "That'd be great."

The doctor stopped her exam and really looked at the soldier who was slouching in front of her. "Everything all right, Captain?" she couldn't help but ask.

Steve blinked, turning for the first time in her direction. "Everything's great," he said, but she saw how his eyes held no emotion, how his bland facial expression didn't match his words.

As if noticing her watching him, Rogers concentrated hard, his forehead furrowing and the corners of his mouth tilting slightly upwards in a pained facsimile of a smile.

"Will that be all, ma'am?" he questioned quietly after an awkward pause.

"Of course, Captain," she responded, freeing him from the blood pressure cuff and exiting the room.

Rogers exhaled deeply as she left, all the energy he had invested in looking enthused gone with his breath. He slumped against the headboard and leaned his head back against the wall.

_Get him up and running again? For what?_

Fury had promised him a position at S.H.I.E.L.D. regardless—_that_ he believed. But in what capacity? He sure as hell wasn't going be some desk jockey and he wasn't stupid enough to believe that S.H.I.E.L.D. would let the invaluable work of Howard Stark and Abraham Erskine far out of their sight just in case the serum wasn't completely lost.

He felt himself spiraling and scrunched his eyes closed, focusing on ridding his mind of all the negative thoughts.

He _had_ been Captain America after all. Everyone was counting on him to bounce back from this. Hell, he'd survived seventy years frozen in a block of ice: this should be a walk in the park.

He knew that's what they were all thinking; he could see it in their short glances filled to capacity with pity.

And suddenly he couldn't take it anymore: the room was too small, the walls were closing in. He was running out options, had nowhere to escape. His breath was now coming in quick, shallow gasps.

He wasn't Captain America anymore.

He didn't have the serum.

He was no longer invincible.

He was no longer special.

Without his abilities, he was just a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who had a taste of what it felt like to be making a difference and, in the blink of an eye, had had that capacity stolen from him. Now he was just another man living in New York…but even that wasn't the truth. He would never be _average—_never be normal—since he had been born almost ninety years ago.

So much had changed in seventy years. He barely knew how to use his bulky cellular flip phone, let alone any of technology that appeared in even the simplest of devices.

How was he going to survive?

Tears burned at the back of his eyes as his chest heaved, but he refused to give in, refused to show weakness.

He could overcome this. He _would _overcome this.

Everyone was expecting him to.


	9. Chapter 9

"We're ready when you are, Captain Rogers," the technician in charge announced as he entered a small observation room where two other scientists stood, pens poised over clipboards and ready to record even the smallest of details.

Steve nodded with great effort and slowly turned the dial on the treadmill's display until the belt was moving at a steady pace beneath his feet.

He had been cleared for light duty by the medics this morning and had almost immediately been sent to the lab where he had agreed to complete more tests in hopes that the data would better help the scientists redesign the serum. So far, he'd completed cognitive exams, endured various forms of surprise so the technicians could quantify his reaction time, been forced to lift increasingly heavy weights until his arms and legs quivered with strain, and was now told to run for as long as he could with small electrodes affixed to his skin measuring his heart rate and oxygen saturation.

He was exhausted physically and mentally but couldn't find it within himself to quit on the off chance that they might glean something useful from a future test.

The microphone in the other room crackled to life. "If you can, Captain, increase the speed."

He didn't even turn his head, keeping his eyes glued to the moving track to ensure one foot landed in front of the other. His chest was heaving, his breath hissing out through gritted teeth, but he did as they asked, upping the speed ever so slightly. He lurched forward, barely managing to stay upright as the belt turned more quickly. Despite the doctor's assurance that his concussion was practically healed, his head started to pound as his feet continued to slap against the rubber track.

"Hold this speed for a few minutes," a deep voice ordered.

He lifted a shaking hand to his brow and wiped away the sweat that was collecting there. He wasn't going to stop—he _would_ finish this test.

As the minutes passed, the painful burning in his muscles began to slowly drift away until he could no longer feel his lower extremities; now, he was completely reliant on the signals between his eyes and brain to ensure his feet kept moving.

"Excellent job, Captain. Now a little bit faster?" the voice implored.

He had been so focused on staying upright that the technician's voice startled him, causing his deep concentration to waver ever so slightly. Unfortunately, in his current state, that was all that was necessary for his right foot to land half on the plastic rail, half on the tread. He stumbled and, unable to coax his unfeeling legs into motion, felt himself falling, his hands stretching for the handrail far too slowly to keep him from colliding with the moving belt.

Suddenly, he was being hauled upright by the back of his sweat-soaked T-shirt and a calloused hand slid into his field of vision, punching the emergency stop button.

"Steve!" a familiar voice was shouting as he was guided to a chair. He summoned the energy to look left and saw the concerned face of Dr. Banner inches from his own.

"Are you all right, Steve?" the physicist asked again as he began to gently pull electrodes from the soldier's skin.

Cap wanted to respond but there wasn't enough saliva in his mouth to form words. He went to nod but the motion was interrupted by a full-body shiver. Banner grabbed a towel off a nearby table and handed it to the soldier, who quickly dragged it up and down his sweaty limbs, feeling his body temperature decrease ever so slightly.

"He was swaying for the last minute, you—"

As the buzzing in his ears died down, Steve was able to hear the colorful expletives of Tony Stark peppering a speech about how the technicians must be trying to kill Captain America because no one in their right minds would continue to exert the man who had only been cleared this morning and who looked like death warmed over…

He lifted his head and saw the inventor pounding on the clear glass while he continued to rant. A small grin came to his face as he saw the scientists recoiling and holding their clipboards as protection against the enraged Stark.

When Tony finished reprimanding the technicians, he grabbed a water bottle from a small table and trotted over to Banner and the Captain. He tossed the bottle to Rogers who yanked off the cap and gulped down the cool liquid. He was kept from finishing the entire bottle by Bruce who had grabbed the bottom of the plastic container in order to hold it horizontal.

"Slowly," the physicist cautioned. Reluctantly, the soldier nodded and sipped at the remaining water.

"How's he doing?" Stark asked, looking over his shoulder at the scientists who were pressed up against the glass to make sure their subject was alright.

Before Banner could answer, Steve cleared his throat and rasped, "I'm okay."

"You can't let them push you like that," Bruce said, his steady gaze taking in the soldier's flushed face. "You're still healing."

"I know," Steve muttered sullenly, choosing to ignore the underlying meaning of the physicist's words.

"I don't think you do," Tony interjected. "If we hadn't been working across the hall, you'd have a serious case of road rash. As is, you're lucky we got here when we did."

"It won't happen again," the soldier mumbled, staring intently at the patterns in the tile flooring.

"Damn straight it won't. Not after Coulson is finished with them," Stark pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped out a message.

Bruce reached over and grabbed Steve's wrist, silently counting beats while he watched seconds tick by on the analog clock.

"Your heart rate's normalizing," he lifted the back of his hand to Steve's forehead. "So is your temperature."

He hesitated for a moment before saying, "I know it's no business of mine, but, as your friend, I advise you to take the rest of the day off." When Steve opened his mouth to protest, Banner held up hand. "Nothing _has_ to be completed today. You can come in tomorrow after a full night's rest and pick up right where you left off—under more careful supervision of course," he raised his voice to be heard in the observation room.

As if on cue, the far door creaked open and the head technician stepped back into the room, his clipboard half-raised. "I want to apologize, Captain, on behalf of the entire team. It was never our intention to cause you further injury. We were so engrossed in the valuable data that we weren't able to see how ill you'd become._"_

"It wasn't entirely your fault," Steve muttered to the tile before accepting the scientist's apology in as gracious a tone as he could manage.

"I agree with the rage monster," Stark offered after a moment, pointedly ignoring Banner's scathing look. "I think you're done for the day."

Steve glanced between the inventor and the scientist and realized protesting would be futile. He sat perfectly still while Dr. Banner freed him from the last of the electrodes before shakily rising to his feet.

"Yes, I most certainly agree," the technician spoke up but no one was paying him any heed. "About tom—"

"He'll call you," Tony smacked the scientist on the back as they passed, not bothering to soften any of the hit.

By the time they reached the hallway, a group of agents, close friends of Coulson's, had assembled to escort Steve out of the building. The agent in question wasn't far behind them and everyone quickly dispersed as he entered the observation room.

As they watched the agents follow Steve into the elevator, Banner was reminded of the ferocity with which Stark had attacked the scientists. "Didn't realize you cared," he began casually.

Tony closed one eye and squinted at his friend with the other. "I don't. It's just he runs interference between me and the Eyepatch and, with this whole six-man team thing, my suits don't get destroyed as often."

"But you love making new suits."

"Doesn't mean I like seeing the old ones destroyed."

"Sounds like caring to me."

"It's more like..." Stark struggled to find the right word, "..._grudging appreciation_ for what he does."

"If you say so, Tony," Banner shrugged, knowing he had seen concern splashed across the inventor's face when he thought no one was looking.

* * *

The next few days passed quickly and uneventfully. Every morning the scientists went to work trying to find a formula that would recreate the serum and every afternoon Steve was escorted to a testing room where, hours later, he left sweaty, exhausted and absolutely lifeless.

When he was back at the Tower, he tended to avoid conservation with his teammates because the absolute avoidance of anything related to his current state was harder to deal with than the topic itself. It didn't escape his notice how they ordered the usual amount of food without thinking, offering him way more than he could currently consume, before quickly handing that plate to Thor and giving him a regular serving. Speaking of the god, Steve hadn't realized just how strong the Asgardian actually was or, conversely, how strong _he _actually had been. He used to be able to take a friendly hit from Thor without a second thought but when the god, in an attempt to restore some modicum of normalcy, had automatically clapped him on the shoulder, Steve had almost fallen flat on his face with the force of the collision.

He appreciated everything the team was trying to do but the quick glances and the hushed conversations were too much. So after being completely cleared, he threw himself back into his training workout, lowering all the weights to a more human level. He threw punch after punch into that stupid bag, the one that hung tauntingly from the ceiling, the one he would no longer be able to break without Thor's assistance, feeling the pent-up anger, confusion and sorrow flowing from his wrapped hands into the plastic covering.

_Maybe that's a good thing_, he thought ruefully, the corner of his mouth turning up into a pained smile. _It'll save Stark money on punching bags._

Honestly, he knew this attitude wasn't healthy but he just didn't know what else to do. What was he without the serum? What simple, normal position could he have at S.H.I.E.L.D.? He didn't have the extensive training that Clint or Natasha had and, even though he had quickly jumped ranks to Captain, he suspected the agency was more likely to promote him to handler than to let him back in the field.

Mostly though, he was worried about the ramifications of what Fury had told him. If the serum was gone, did that mean his body would return to his previous build? He winced as he recalled his bones growing, stretching with the Vita-Rays but was too scared to ask Bruce or Stark if that was even a possibility. Or what about his numerous childhood afflictions? Would they all make a comeback now that he was no longer immune?

Earlier today, Barton had tried to talk to him about his other options until Stark and Banner were successful, but he just couldn't think about that quite yet, couldn't allow himself to give up on the scientists. So he had politely excused himself and headed back to his room—not the room on the thirty-fourth floor that was private and peaceful but the room he had been assigned on the tenth floor that was directly across from the makeshift medical wing. There, he tried to relax, tried to stop his heart from pounding a hole in his ribs, but everything in the room from the vintage wallpaper to the antique furniture reminded him of who he used to be. In that instant, he knew he couldn't sit in that room, hoping, begging, praying, any longer.

So, he left.

* * *

Natasha exited the elevator on the tenth floor and walked quickly toward Steve's room.

Over the last day, she had noticed how his normally perfect posture had been traded for an ever-present slouch and, though he still had that Greek god build, his belt was drawn just a touch tighter and the shirt that once highlighted his muscular torso was hanging loosely off his shoulders. Even when he was with the team, he looked completely and utterly lost.

She'd be lying if she pretended she understood what Steve was going through but all her years as an agent had proven that avoiding the situation entirely wasn't conducive to overcoming it. Super soldier or not, Steve needed to be taking better care of himself. He was still a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D., even though he appeared to be in denial that that was actually possible. Regardless of his physical condition, his years of military training, his uncanny knack for knowing exactly what strategy to employ, and his calm, humble demeanor were unparalleled.

The first step, though, was convincing Steve he was still needed.

She rapped softly on his door. "C'mon Rogers," she called. "We're going out."

There was no response from inside the room.

"I _will_ come in if you do not open the door," she continued, reaching down and twisting the door knob which gave easily under her grasp.

She immediately threw herself against the closest wall, pulling her weapon from the small of her back. She yanked back the slide to load a bullet into the chamber before taking a deep breath, kicking open the door and stepping into the room, her gun at the ready. When she didn't find anyone in the main area, she quickly cleared the walk-in closet and the bathroom without a different result.

"JARVIS, where is Captain Rogers?" Natasha questioned harshly as she stepped back into the main quarters.

"He asked me to not to reveal his location, though he assures you he is safe," the AI intoned.

Natasha exhaled loudly. "Where is he now, JARVIS?" she asked, a note of exasperation in her voice.

"I do not know, Agent Romanov. He pleaded with me not to record his actions."

The Black Widow raised her head and muttered some phrases in Russian. "Translate that..." She paused, giving the AI a moment to work, before continuing. "_That_ is what I will do to your circuit boards unless you tell me exactly where Steve is."

There was a long moment of silence before JARVIS finally spoke, "I will not tell you because you threatened me...I will tell you because I do not believe Captain Rogers should be alone," the AI continued. "He climbed down the east fire escape thirty minutes ago."

Natasha swore under her breath, knowing that Manhattan was the _last _place Steve Rogers, a man very literally out of his time, should be right now, and took off running toward the elevator.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I would love to know what you thought!**


	10. Chapter 10

Bruce Banner pulled a test tube from the rank and filled a clear pipette with version 4337 of the serum. He picked up a second pipette that contained Steve's blood and was about to dispense it into the test tube when something collided with his shoulder, causing his hand to shake ever so slightly. Fortunately, he was able to pull his thumb away from the plunger before any of the blood had spilled.

"Stark," Bruce warned without looking away from the instruments in front of him. He knew Tony was hovering right over his shoulder, so close that the inventor's spiky, unwashed hair would practically be in Banner's face. He also knew that Tony's goggles were hanging carelessly around his neck, instead of being secured around his face, and suspected they were the object that kept swinging into his shoulder.

The genius glanced left and scooted backwards a few inches.

"This month would be good," he quipped, motioning furiously with his hands.

Bruce slowly rolled his eyes which only seemed to further aggravate his impatient teammate. He realigned the pipette and dropped a few milliliters of a blue liquid into a sample of Steve's serumless cells, twisted on a cap and slipped the test tube back onto the rack.

"Now we wait." He pushed his own goggles onto his forehead and leaned back in his chair. He heard the squeak of a rolling chair being set in motion and saw Tony flying across the room until he slammed into his workspace.

Barely resisting the effort to chide his teammate, he looked out onto the now empty hallway and allowed his thoughts to wander. A few hours ago, he had seen Steve being escorted out of the building by a slew of guards. As he passed, the soldier had lifted his hand in a semblance of a wave but Bruce had been too shocked at the Captain's haggard appearance to do more than raise his own hand in response. He had been expecting the physical changes considering the soldier's metabolism was no longer running at four times its usual rate but something else was…_off_, for lack of a better term…with the young soldier and that unknown had been troubling the scientist for a great while now.

As his formula began to bubble quietly, Bruce massaged his aching temples. He was tired of the half-answers he had been getting from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rest of the Avengers regarding Steve's condition. He wanted a complete analysis and knew only one man who had the ability to do that.

"What are they not telling us?" he asked his teammate.

"A whole lot of nothing," Stark laughed humorlessly, knowing exactly to whom Banner was referring. He pulled his StarkPhone from his pocket and held it up to a nearby screen, allowing JARVIS to temporarily commandeer it.

"Let's see," he drawled, pulling up a picture of Steve sitting morosely in bed, staring unblinkingly at the far wall, followed by a video of a cautiously optimistic Steve picking up his colored pencils and beginning a sketch before he threw the book across the room, his shoulders heaving painfully and his face tightly contorted.

"Oh Steve," Bruce muttered under his breath as videos continued to slide onscreen: Coulson stopping by with an old-fashioned board game, Clint suggesting Steve's other options under S.H.I.E.L.D., Thor wanting to discuss how training an Asgardian warrior differed from a Midgardian. Rogers politely refused each attempt to distract him and returned to his room—not that he found any peace there; through a time lapse, Banner could see Steve was only spending a few hours asleep a night until he would sit bolt upright, panting and scrubbing at his face, feeling his bicep, his quadriceps, his ribs… _Reassuring himself that this isn't just a dream, _the doctor realized with a start.

Onscreen, Steve practically leapt out of bed, pulled on a white V-neck and all but sprinted for the closest gymnasium where he punched and lifted and ran himself into exhaustion. In the wee hours of the morning, he dragged his now fatigued body into bed only to wake a few hours later and return to S.H.I.E.L.D.

"There you have it," Stark said as the footage faded to black. "_A Week in the Life of Steve Rogers._ Think it will be nominated for any awards?"

"He's surviving, Tony. Cut him some slack."

"We need him to do more than that," Stark snapped.

Banner shook his head and slid an older test tube into an agitator. "Just give him some time. Right now, he's going through his own personal hell—he's not thinking clearly."

"Well then he needs to Dante his ass back to reality. And soon." Stark glanced over at Bruce's surprised expression. "Yeah, I read. From time to time. When I can't think of anything better to do."

The two were interrupted by the catchy guitar riffs and the rough vocals of Brian Johnson.

"Shocker," Banner muttered as he recognized the song.

"Would you expect anything less?" Tony grinned cockily, thumbing the accept button. "What Natasha?"

Stark's grin dropped off his face, replaced by a frown. "When?"

Bruce stood up, walking over towards Tony. "What's going on?"

"Uh huh," Stark held up his hand, stopping Bruce from leaning in. He listened for a moment more before tilting the phone away from his ear so the doctor could hear the muttered Russian.

"Don't worry about it, I'll handle it," Stark informed the Widow when she stopped cursing long enough to catch her breath.

Banner could literally see Natasha's shocked face through the phone. "You'll what?" she managed after a long pause.

"I've. Got. It."

"Stark are you sure…"

"When have I ever—"

"Stark!"

"I can handle it Nat," Stark grinned evilly, knowing she hated that nickname. "You and Legolas go back to whatever yoga positions you were trying and we'll be home for dinner."

"I so swear Stark—"

"Gotta go!" he quickly disconnected the call.

"Steve's gone," he told Bruce evenly.

"What?" the scientist questioned, already reaching for his jacket.

Stark reached out and grabbed his friend's shoulder. "I know where he is."

"How?" the doctor responded, the news that Steve had disappeared reducing his normally eloquent speech to one-word questions.

"If you just found out you were completely human, where would you go to drown your sorrows?"

Understanding flitted across the doctor's face.

"I'm still coming with."

"Nope. Gotta handle this one by myself."

Banner still wasn't sure that was such a great idea, but he understood the logic in not overwhelming Steve. Plus, the soldier and Tony had a lot more in common than they would care to believe. "Just…be sensitive."

"You know me," Stark whirled around at the door, his arms spread wide. "I'm the epitome of sensitivity."

"That's what we're all afraid of," Banner mumbled under his breath, turning back to his research as the door whooshed closed.

* * *

There were only a handful of bars in the greater New York area that had been around since the 1930s. Of these, there were only a few that kept the vintage atmosphere of that era, but there was only one Tony Stark had heard his father mention repeatedly.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass and paused to run a hand through his hair before entering.

"Hey," he drawled at the stunning bartender. "You seen a guy come in here about an hour ago? Blond? Sitting by himself?"

"He's back there," she pointed to a small table hidden from the front door by the left ridge of the bar. "Ordered a bottle the minute he got here. Haven't heard much from him since."

Stark pulled out a twenty and slapped it into her hand. "Thanks."

He stepped around the bar and was surprised by the sight that greeted him. Rogers was hunched over the table, his normally coiffed hair standing up in every direction and a week-old beard lining his jaw. He held a tumbler loosely in one hand and was scrubbing at his face with the other. The soldier didn't even look up as the billionaire approached.

"Stark," he crooned, raising his glass woozily. "Not the man I wanted to see."

Tony sat down across the table, moving the mostly-empty bottle that was standing between them. "I never thought I'd see you drunk," he commented without really thinking.

Steve winced. "Never thought…you'd see me drunk neither. But…shit happens," he clumsily reached out, barely managing to wrap his hand around the neck of the bottle.

Stark reached out and grabbed the bottom, keeping Rogers from bringing it closer. "I think you've had enough," he cautioned.

"Says you," Steve scoffed, tugging hard on the glass neck. "C'mon Stark!" he whined when the genius refused to let go.

Tony easily pulled the bottle out of Steve's loose grip and placed it beside him on the seat. "We need to talk, Captain."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Captain—is'o formal." He downed the rest of his drink and held out his empty glass to Stark. "Please?" he begged.

Tony shook his head. "Not until we've talked."

Scowling, Rogers reluctantly placed the glass on the table. "What could you…_possibly…_want…to talk about?"

"You," Stark replied, eyeing the drunken man. It was a very unusual situation for him. Usually Rhodey was the one cutting off his alcohol supply and it felt downright strange to be doing it for someone else.

"Wha' 'bout me?" Steve slurred.

"How are you doing?" Stark asked, wincing internally as the words left his lips.

"I'm…'m just…peachy," Rogers paused. "People still say that, right?"

"Those bags under your eyes say otherwise."

"Drop't, Stark," Steve muttered, staring intently at the bottom of his glass.

"Nope," Tony scrunched up his face in exaggerated thought, "can't."

Steve turned his head, his eyes deadly serious. "Drop. It. Stark," he repeated.

"Can't do that."

"Fine." Steve rose up from his seat, bracing himself against the table to remain upright. "Bartender," he unintentionally shouted, his inebriated state keeping him from realizing how loud he was. "My tab please."

Stark shook his head and waving a hundred dollar bill in the air behind Steve. The bartender nodded in agreement to Tony's unspoken deal and turned away to pour another drink.

Steve looked back, his entire body twitching as he did so. "Why…"

"Sit down Cap," Tony pointed at the empty chair. Steve looked at the bartender again, then back at Stark. Seeing no other option, he dropped into the seat.

"Whaddya want, Stark?"

"Let's talk about what happened."

"'M not Cap'n America anymore," Steve said sadly. "What's more…to tell?"

"There's a lot more," Tony began, trying to remember the crap Pepper and Rhodey had bombarded him with after he had escaped from Afghanistan. "Like you so eloquently said, shit happens. And yeah, we sit around and mope for a while, but then we get back up and move on. Somewhere along the line, you never got around to part two."

Steve scowled again. "When did you become so…wordy?"

"Listen to me Rogers!" Stark slammed his hand against the table, startling the wasted soldier. "I've spent most of my the last week trying to recreate your serum and for what? So you can sit around all day and feel sorry for yourself?"

Steve's expression hardened and he pointed a finger off to Tony's left. "I don'…"

"Hell yeah you do. I'm not stupid Rogers: I've been checking in. You almost kill yourself at the gym trying to lift the weights you did before; you're not eating properly." Stark reached over and plucked the loose fabric from Steve's frame, "and you've subconsciously managed to annoy the hell out of Natasha, which I'd congratulate you for, by the way, if it wasn't under these circumstances."

"You don't…"

"Yes. I. Do." Stark interrupted, knowing exactly what Rogers was going to say: that he didn't know what it felt like, that he had no idea what he was going through. Well the good Captain was wrong.

Steve was silent, his jaw working furiously and his eyes flashing. After a long moment, they softened and he went from angry to so utterly sad it was heartbreaking in less than a second.

"I don' know…what I'm doing anymore," he admitted so quietly, Stark could barely hear it over the ambient bar scene. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s not gonna…keep me 'round if I'm not...if I'm not—"

Tony easily heard the unspoken words: _if I'm not Captain America._

"That's bullshit and you know it."

Steve shook his head so vigorously he almost knocked himself out of his chair. "In the war, those stupid songs, selling bonds, that's all they had me do, not fighting, not savin' lives. I—I just…_can't_…_do_…that again."

"You don't have to. There are plenty of jobs at S.H.I.E.L.D. for normal people…" he hesitated as Steve pulled away from the word 'normal' but didn't stop. "Look at Clint and Natasha."

"But I…_was _Cap'n 'merica," Steve's muttering was getting progressively worse as he became more agitated. "They're not just gonna…let me go 'n missions 'nymore. Too val'uable or som'in'…"

"You don't know that."

And the tiniest glimmer of hope sparkled in Steve's eyes. "Ya think?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," Tony quickly continued when he saw Steve's face fall just as fast. "But I know that Fury isn't going to even think about it until you get your act together."

"Just…can't take those looks…they—"

"The ones where they don't understand what happened or how you're feeling and they really don't want to know but feel obliged to feel bad all the same because they know you and want you to feel like you can come to them with anything, but really, under it all, they don't want to know? Those the looks you're talking about?"

Steve nodded. "You _do _know."

Tony shoved away the memories that were bubbling up from his subconscious. "Yeah."

Making one of his infamous lightning-fast decisions—the kind he usually regretting within the hour—Stark grabbed a glass off a nearby table and held it up to the light, checking its relative cleanliness. "This conversation is far too serious to have sober," he lifted the bottle and poured himself a healthy amount before reaching over and pouring Steve considerably less.

"The day after your head isn't threatening to separate itself from your body, you start acting like Fury should be lost without you." Tony paused for a split second. "And maybe shave that beard, make yourself look presentable."

Steve scowled. "You 'ave…a beard."

"It takes a lot of energy to maintain this perfection," Stark motioned to his goatee. "You look like Heidi's grandfather."

He waited for a sharp retort from the soldier, having purposely picked a film from the man's era, but received none. After a long moment, he downed a healthy amount of his drink and quietly said, "Somewhere in your alcohol-induced haze, you know Banner and I won't quit until we've found a solution."

"Yeah," Steve whispered. "I do."

He looked up, his face shockingly clear after the amount of alcohol he had just consumed. "E'ryone have to know 'bout this?"

Stark threw back the rest of his drink and shook his head. "Nah but Barton's gonna lose it if he ever finds out I didn't invite him to see you drunk."

Steve took a long swallow of his drink before muttering something under his breath that Tony didn't quite catch.

"Wanna say that again?" Stark leaned forward to hear his teammate as dishes crashed in the background.

"I said," Rogers cleared his throat uncomfortably, "thanks."

The inventor reached out and divided the last of the alcohol between the two of them.

"You're welcome," he replied as he clinked his glass against the soldier's. They tilted their heads back and finished their drinks.

"C'mon, Steve," Stark reached over and hauled the soldier to his feet, leaving a sizeable tip on the table, despite the Captain's protests he should pay.

"Let's go home."

* * *

**The Star-Spangled Man once again has a plan.**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	11. Chapter 11

Nine A.M. found Steve Rogers still in bed with the sheets pulled up to his chin and his eyes screwed tightly closed to ward off the headache from hell. He had forgotten just how unpleasant hangovers were. In the five minutes he had been awake, he had changed his philosophy on the time he had spent unable to get truly drunk—in hindsight, it was a blessing; he had avoided many mornings like this where he didn't want to do _anything _until his brain wasn't trying to pound a hole in his skull.

After another ten minutes of pure misery, he decided he should probably find some aspirin before his headache further intensified. With a groan, he struggled upright, his limbs stiff and uncoordinated. A small lamp automatically clicked on and Steve turned his head in the other direction, throwing up one hand to shield his eyes.

The small amount of light allowed him to spy a bottle of aspirin on the nightstand with a bright blue note stuck to the lid. He squinted at the uneven scrawl and, once the letters stopped rearranging themselves, he saw that it read "Take three".

_Not gonna be a problem_, he agreed. He reached out, completely missing the bottle on his first try, but clumsily grabbing it on his second. He valiantly battled the childproof cap and, when the plastic yielded, he dumped out three pills and dry swallowed them, ignoring the scratching of the small tablets against his throat.

With great effort, he made his way to the bathroom where someone had thoughtfully laid out a pair of jeans and a soft button-up shirt—not his usual style, but at the moment, he didn't really care. Actually changing into the clothes, though, was quite an adventure since his balance was anything but stable. Finally, he splashed water on his face and neck to wash away the scent of the last night's alcohol. He knew he probably needed a shower but that was asking a little too much of his cognitive strength at the moment.

Minimal amount of grooming completed, he headed for the kitchen. The moment he stepped into the room, he was assaulted by the bright light beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Mrrgh!" he groaned, burying his head into his elbow.

"Someone had fun last night," he heard Stark quip and tucked his head deeper into his arm to protect his ears from Tony's overly loud tone.

"Window…" Steve gasped, pointing at the offending glass. "Voice."

"JARVIS?" Stark asked just as loudly, ignoring the soldier's second complaint.

"Right away sir," Steve heard the AI say, followed by the sound of the doors clicking closed and blinds descending. When he opened his eyes again, the room was dimly lit, but not overly so.

"Thanks," he muttered, straightening up.

Stark just snickered.

"Ya hungry?" he asked more softly, having experienced a hangover or two in his life.

As his eyes adjusted, Steve looked around the room and saw Tony standing by the stove, wearing an apron that read "Scientists do it in the lab." He tossed a spatula casually between hands before picking up the frying pan and expertly flipping its contents.

"Since when do you cook?" Steve asked as he walked into the roomy kitchen.

Tony scoffed at the accusation. "I _can_ cook. I just don't like to."

Rogers saw black smoke rising off the pan in the back corner. He instinctively reached out to help but his hand was slapped away almost immediately.

"No drunks near the stove." Stark pointed to a stool in the far corner, "Sit."

"But—" Steve stuttered. Tony ignored him and pulled the steaming pan of hash browns off the burner.

"Sit," he repeated, motioning toward the stool with the hot pan.

Rogers considered arguing but his head was throbbing and the chair looked so damn inviting. He perched precariously on the wooden stool and asked, "What're you making?"

"Pancakes. Because, really, who doesn't like pancakes? They're, like, the best breakfast food," Tony continued as he tilted the pan and five perfectly circular flapjacks slid onto a plate already heaped with more.

"I think I made too many," he deadpanned. "Guess you'll just have to help me eat them."

Steve glanced at the breakfast food and his stomach churned. "Erhm…"

"You have to eat something. We went over this last night, remember?"

Steve stared at the pancakes warily. Slowly, he reached out, grabbed one and took a small bite. Under Tony's watchful eye, the soldier chewed the miniscule portion and swallowed without turning a motley green.

"Excellent. Now have about five more."

"Stark!" Steve groaned.

"Just looking out for ya, Captain. You don't want me to get Banner or Natasha in here to convince you otherwise, do you?"

Steve waited for a moment to make sure the pancake was staying down before dividing its remnants into fourths and cautiously consuming it.

Tony nodded approvingly as he walked over to the table, balancing the overfilled plate of pancakes and a bottle of syrup in one hand and a full glass of a greenish smoothie in the other. He slid half the pancakes onto an empty plate and handed it to Steve, who had followed him to the table. After Stark had drizzled copious amounts of syrup over his stack, he looked up to see the super soldier eyeing the tower of food in front of him.

"Eat," he brandished his fork menacingly in Steve's direction.

The Captain responded by obediently stuffing more pancake into his mouth, even though he didn't look particularly happy about it.

"Better," Stark dug into his own food. "We've got a looong day ahead of us."

* * *

Two hours later, Steve stood outside the door to the lab, his hand hovering over the handle.

After Tony had made him consume a large, overly sugary liquid called an expresso and a fair share of hash browns, a very agitated Pepper phoned, wondering why the co-CEO of Stark Industries wasn't in the single, most important board meeting of the twenty-first century. Tony had cursed, apologized, cursed again and sprinted out of the room, hollering over his shoulder for Rogers to meet him back here in a few hours, preferably after he had showered and shaved. As discussed over breakfast, the genius was convinced that Steve still held the answer to reproducing the serum and that, somehow, the techs at S.H.I.E.L.D. had screwed up the data.

While Stark was in his meeting, Steve had taken the longest shower of his entire life and had stepped out of the steaming spray feeling better than he had the entire week. Though his head was still aching, he had a plan—had a new purpose, as cheesy as that sounded. He was going to be there for his team, in whatever capacity S.H.I.E.L.D. would allow.

There had been something called an electric razor sitting on the counter—Tony had stolen his straight razor the night before, not wanting him to accidently slit his throat while he was still hung-over. Rogers had pushed the sliding button upwards and carefully ran the buzzing instrument over his jaw. It wasn't as close of a shave as he was used to, but Stark had assured him he couldn't do any serious damage...at least, he had so thoughtfully clarified, that was what the manufacturer's label had said.

When he was finished, Rogers had thrown on the outfit he had been wearing that morning and wandered around Stark Tower, having never been here long enough to really explore.

And that's where JARVIS found him two hours later, meandering around the Tower's many floors and marveling at their sheer expanse.

So here he stood, less than five minutes later, outside another lab, once again volunteering to be poked, prodded and questioned. But if Stark thought it would help, he was more than willing to give it a try. He had faith in both Stark and Banner who would be joining them tomorrow after finishing up his last batch of tests at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Steve took a deep breath before opening the unlocked door and slipping into the room. He hovered awkwardly by the doorway, waiting for instructions from Tony who was engrossed in a thick book on genetics.

"Captain Rogers is here, sir," JARVIS announced after a moment, startling the inventor.

"Sit there," Tony motioned toward the bed that had been set up in the center of the lab while he scanned the last few pages. Steve walked quickly across the lab and sat, reflexively rolling up his sleeve when he saw Stark gather a rack of test tubes and a large needle.

They exchanged small talk while Tony drew more blood, but unlike the scientists before him, Stark immediately handed him a piece of toast and a rectangular paper box.

Rogers looked curiously at the box as he bent his arm, placing his hand against his shoulder to slow the bleeding in his elbow.

"What's this?" he asked after a second, holding the carton at arm's length.

Stark glanced over his shoulder as he prepared a test with Steve's blood. "It's a juice box, Rogers, not an IED."

The soldier stared at the box, carefully pulling the plastic packaging away from the side.

"Oh for Pete's sake," Stark turned around, snatched the straw, pounded it against the table, pulled off the plastic covering and shoved the straw into the box. "Drink up."

Rogers stared warily at the box before taking a small sip. He nodded approvingly when tangy apple juice flowed into his mouth.

"So, what are you doing with that?" he tipped his head toward the blood.

"Running through all possible combinations of the serum based on the oh-so-uninformative notes Coulson found in a corner of a god-forsaken basement in the middle of nowhere," Stark held up a crinkled sheet of paper that was yellow with age.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Stark returned, drawing out the _a_ sound as he dropped a few milliliters of a clear liquid into one vial of Steve's blood and set it aside.

"Ready for your close-up, Captain?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know what that means."

Stark put his hands together and stared at the ceiling, silently begging for patience. "Someone needs to buy him a DVD player. JARVIS, take note."

"Always, sir," the AI responded.

Stark shifted a few items in the center of the lab, revealing an old-fashioned projection screen that he yanked down with a horrific screech of rusted metal.

"Now, take off your clothes and come stand over here," he ordered.

Steve stared incredulously at the inventor. "You're not serious."

"Actually, I am. So c'mon: strip for science."

"Stark, I'm not comfort—"

Tony turned around slowly and Steve saw him exhale deeply. "In order to help you, I need data," Stark began, speaking slowly as if he was talking to a kindergartner. "I need to see how your body reacts when you're stressed, when you're calm. I need to understand what makes you tick. Only then, will we have the tools to remanufacture the serum that a few people got damn lucky creating the first time."

Steve thought for a long moment before scowling deeply and reluctantly shucking off his shirt, which he folded in half and dropped on the floor.

"Do I really—" he paused with his hands on the metal belt buckle.

"The fabric messes up the readings." Tony shuddered as a thought occurred to him. "But for God's sake, please leave your tighty-whities on. That's an image I _don't_ need stuck in my photographic memory!"

"They're boxers," Steve mumbled as he reluctantly stepped out of the jeans.

"Aw Cap, I thought they'd be red white and blue," Tony teased as he caught a glimpse of the grey material.

Steve pulled a face, the only outward acknowledgement that the inventor had spoken. "For the record, I hate this idea," he mumbled as he shuffled to the center of the room.

"Duly noted."

Stark waited until Rogers was standing in front of the screen before ordering JARVIS to get to work.

"Your wish is my command," the AI responded as it began to run various scans, recording Steve's vitals and converting the data into charts and tables.

"When did you become so flippant?" Tony asked as he took a seat behind a wall of holographic projections and began examining them.

"I believe it was the update before last."

Stark grinned at the AI…and at watching Steve squirm uncomfortably in only his underwear.

"What exactly is this telling you?" the soldier asked, glowering when he spied the smirk on Tony's face.

"I'm getting a baseline for future tests," he replied after a beat, staring intently at the numbers that were flying across his screen. "But your fidgeting is ruining them—so just stand there and shut up."

Steve frowned, his face scrunched with displeasure, but he stilled and allowed JARVIS to finish the scans without disruption.

As instructed, he turned in an agonizingly slow circle, allowing the AI to generate a 360 degree hologram of his person. Finally, after a short round of cardio to ensure the sensors recorded a difference in his vitals, JARVIS announced he was finished.

_Thank God_, Steve thought as he headed for his clothes.

"Where do you think you're going?" Stark snapped his fingers and a small robot dragged out a dusty treadmill. It wheezed and panted as it passed Steve, its head literally bent almost to the floor as it hauled the heavy piece of machinery behind it.

"I'm putting on my clothes—" Steve began.

"No need," Tony tossed him a pair of running shorts (ignoring Steve's complaining that he had had these available the entire time!) and began attaching electrodes to his chest and a pulse ox to his finger. He nodded his head, giving the illusion he was listening, as the soldier continued to go on about…well Stark wasn't really sure about what, but it was refreshing to see the other man talking with emotion, even if most of his words were fairly weak death threats.

Still nodding, he handed Steve a bottle of water and pushed him toward the treadmill. "Get running, Forrest."

Steve frowned at the inventor but obediently pulled on the shorts, stepped onto the moving tread and began jogging. "I don't understand that one either."

Even the robot shook his head in disapproval.

* * *

Hours later, Stark finished rerunning every test imaginable, complete with cognitive and problem-solving tests. Between each one, the scientist would recite a quote, ask if Steve knew its origin, and note the ones Steve didn't recognize…which, at the end of the day, were most of them. He wasn't sure what exactly this had to do with resynthesizing the serum, Rogers was fairly sure he had gotten the one about 'following the white rabbit' correct, having cited _Alice in Wonderland_.

"That's adorable," Stark had smirked before adding what was presumably another movie title to his ever-growing list.

While the genius was analyzing the data, the soldier sat in a corner of the massive lab, wiping the sweat off his forehead and neck with a grayish towel that obviously saw lots of use, and chugged a bottle of water. Though the tests had been repetitive and boring, Tony had been strangely kind about the whole deal, taking frequent breaks when he thought necessary, not when Steve admitted to needing a rest. After every exam, Rogers had been forced to stand in front of the screen while JARVIS reevaluated his vitals. The day had been long but Stark seemed pleased with the results he had gathered.

Steve heard Banner's voice filter across the lab and looked up to see Tony and the physicist engaged in a very scientific conversation, most of which he didn't understand.

He was focusing on slowing his breathing when he heard Stark curse. Considering the monotony of the day, he shouldn't have been surprised to hear the harsh words, but there was something about Tony's tone that made Steve look up.

"What?" he questioned, seeing Stark staring wide-eyed at the screen. He got up quickly and hurried over to Tony's desk. "What? What's wrong?"

"Holy shit," Stark breathed, swiping his fingers through the projections. "JARVIS, get Banner back on the line."

"Yes sir."

"And run that simulation again."

"Stark?" Steve asked again, his heart pounding anxiously against his rib cage. His chest contracted painfully as he saw the odd expression on Tony's face and his thoughts raced to all the horrible things the scientist could have discovered.

"Not now," Tony cut him off, his mouth moving and his fingers performing invisible addition in the air as a small screen appeared to his right.

"What, Tony?" Banner asked, exhaustion seeping through his tone. Steve caught a look at the doctor for the first time today and saw he was sitting at a desk, rubbing his eyes wearily, his lab coat rumpled and obviously slept in.

"We did it."

There was a moment of silence before Bruce looked curiously at the webcam. "We what?" he questioned in disbelief.

"Earlier today. Batch 6016. We. Did it," Stark repeated, surprise evident in his tone, as he continued to stare at the latest batch of blood work that confirmed his theory.

"We replicated the serum."

* * *

**Just because they were able to synthesize the serum doesn't mean this is the end of the story. We still have more action (and more whump) to come.**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	12. Chapter 12

Steve literally stopped breathing as he processed what he had just heard. Had Stark really just…

He focused his dazed expression on Tony who was spreading out projections and pulling them into the webcam's range for Bruce to see.

"That's remarkable."

Tony snorted. "We recreate only the most prized serum in the _entire world_ and the only word you can come up with is _remarkable_? How about fan-freakin-tastic?"

"That too," Banner grinned as he pulled off his glasses and scrubbed a hand across his tired eyes. "Are you sure?"

"JARVIS has run and rerun the projections. It's the only sequence that's even remotely close."

_All that sounded…very positive. _With a great mental shove, Rogers was able to get his jaw working again. "You did it?" he asked, grimacing when he sounded all of five years old.

Stark nodded slowly. "Yeah, Cap. We did it."

The largest smile Tony had ever seen stretched across Rogers' face. "When can I have it?"

"We should run a few more simulations on it," Banner interrupted, the ever-present voice of reason.

Tony waved his hand dismissively at the screen. "Why not let him have it? What's the worst that can happen?"

"Remember Batch 0567?"

Stark's face fell. "Oh, yeah." He turned back to Steve. "We should run a few more simulations on it."

The mega-watt smile faltered slightly but was quickly thrown back in place. Before Stark knew what was happening, Steve had crossed the distance between them with his arms held wide.

_Oh God, _the inventor thought as Rogers kept getting closer and closer without any signs of slowing._ He wasn't serious_…

_Yes, yes he was. _Stark stood completely still as Steve wrapped his arms around him. A few seconds later, the soldier jumped backwards and the moment was over as quickly as it had begun.

"I'm sorry," he said, upon seeing Tony's discomfort, but he really didn't seem all that apologetic. "I just…I'm so…Thank you!" he grabbed Tony's hand with both of his and began shaking it viciously. "And you too, Dr. Banner. I know the two of you have been working long hours on this…and…and I'm so—"

Tony pulled his hand free from Rogers' vice-like grip and awkwardly patted the Captain's shoulder. "It was our pleasure."

Then he stepped back so his desk would serve as a median in case the soldier decided another hug was in order.

"Play nice," he heard Banner say.

"He hugged me!" Stark hissed.

"He's excited. You've practically given him his whole life back."

"He hugged me!" the inventor repeated.

"Get over it, Tony. When can I expect you?"

The inventor glanced at his watch. "Gimme about an hour. I'm sure Fury's going to want a report—I'll rock, paper, scissors you for the honor of telling him—so I should probably shower."

"Yeah, that'd probably be a good thing."

"Look who's talking," Stark retorted. "I've seen livelier corpses."

"Just hurry up and get over here. Steve is dying to have the serum back."

Stark glanced up from the video chat to see the man in question standing in the middle of his lab, a mixture of awesome disbelief combined with the utter joy of _finally_ having something you've dreamed about, you've fought for, you've sweated over, radiating from him in almost tangible waves.

"I'm gonna be Captain America again," Stark heard him murmur softly. And deep inside, though he would never admit it to anyone, Tony felt his heart twinge just a little at seeing Rogers' sheer, unbounded happiness.

But then reality called and asked for its Hallmark moment back. Let's be honest—moments like that just didn't last in the real world.

"You know the drill," Stark began, snapping Steve out of his daze. "No eating, no drinking after midnight. With luck, we'll have these simulations finished by tomorrow morning."

The Captain nodded wordlessly.

Tony waved his hands at the door that JARVIS had kindly opened. "Out, then. I've got things to do to get you prepared for tomorrow."

Still nodding, Steve practically floated out of the lab, wearing only the running shorts. At the doorway, his trance slipped for a split second and he turned around, ready to thank Stark yet again.

"Out!" Tony ordered, pointing emphatically at the doorway.

"FRIEND ROGERS!" Stark heard Thor boom before JARVIS took the opportunity to quickly close the lab door.

"According to Erskine's notes, the Vita-Rays were mainly used to stimulate growth," Banner stated as he skimmed through a yellowing file, "so, unless we want Steve to be 6'6", we need another way to administer it."

"You have any ideas?"

"A few." Banner glanced at his watch. "Tell you what: I'll explain the details when you arrive. We don't want to keep Fury waiting."

"God forbid," Stark quipped before raising his hand, ready to end the video chat.

Then a thought occurred to him. "Bruce, when this is all over…do you…I mean…the serum…" He made a face as the words tumbled over each other while racing out of his mouth.

Banner shook his head mournfully. "I honestly don't know. I've kinda settled into this lifestyle and I don't know if it would do any good at this point."

He looked directly into the camera. "But this isn't about me. This is about getting the spirit of Captain America back. Let's worry about that first."

Tony wasn't really a sentimental person but, in that moment, he understood the magnitude of what Banner was giving up. He wanted to say something genuine as some trivial form of consolation but Bruce cut him off, saying, "See you in an hour," and ending the call.

"JARVIS, run all possible simulations again," Tony instructed after a short pause. "Rain, snow, sleet, hail, plague, smallpox, nuclear irradiation. Anything separates that serum again, you let me know immediately."

"Always, sir. Now, I would advise you to get cleaned up: your hour is running short."

"Yeah, yeah," Stark groused as he pulled off his own shirt and headed for the laboratory showers.

* * *

"Are you sure it's ready?" Coulson questioned from the center of the lab. He was standing next to a hospital bed that the robot named DUM-E had set up earlier and was surrounded by medical equipment including a heart rate monitor and an IV pole.

Stark brushed past him and deposited an armful of materials on a nearby lab bench.

"Ask me that one more time, Agent, and I will have you escorted from the Tower." Tony picked up a small wrench and tightened the newest adjustment to the serum delivery system. It didn't look like much—just an old dialysis machine that had been jerry-rigged into supporting the reintroduction process—but Bruce was confident it would suffice.

"Stark, you can't—"

Tony whirled around, brandishing the wrench. "If you keep asking me inane questions, I can't get my work done. If I can't get my work done, you don't get your Golden Boy back. So sit back, shut up and enjoy the show."

He turned back to the machine in an attempt to suppress further discussion.

"Just—"

Back still turned, the overworked scientist pointed to a bank of chairs at the other end of the room. "Go sit over there until Banner and I are finished," he said with a note of exasperation.

Stark heard Coulson exhale heavily and could image the crestfallen look on the agent's face. "Please," he amended, by way of a half-hearted apology.

"It's your Tower," Phil shrugged, yet his step was a touch lighter as he dragged a chair closer to the temporary hospital unit.

Tony made a few more modifications before gently pulling on the delivery line and grinning when it held. "All good over here, Brucie," he called loudly to be heard on the other side of the lab.

"I think this should do it," the mild-mannered doctor replied as he carefully agitated a beaker filled with clear liquid and examined the color.

"JARVIS, get Stars and Stripes in here."

"He is already on his way, sir."

Tony nodded and squinted at the medical equipment one more time, mentally running through a series of advanced calculations before deeming it ready for use.

Moments later, the door slid open and Captain America walked in, dressed in a soft pair of blue pajama pants and a white T-shirt. He was followed by Natasha, Clint, and Thor, all three of whom looked genuinely excited. In fact, the one who should have been the happiest was the one who looked the most concerned.

"You ready?" Banner asked Rogers as he emptied the beaker into a funnel which lead to a small vial sitting on top of the machine Tony had been repairing.

"It worked once, right?" Steve's voice faltered slightly at the end of his answer.

"That it did," Bruce replied absently as he put down the beaker and examined the delivery system for himself, coming to the same conclusion Tony had. "Now, if you could please take off your shirt Captain, we can get started."

Rogers obliged the doctor and laid rigidly on the bed, not looking at all comfortable.

"Relax, Cap," Natasha reached out and laid her hand on his tense forearm. He looked up at her and nodded before taking a few deep breaths and forcing his muscles to slacken. "That's better," she said as she rubbed her hand up and down his arm.

She stepped out of the way as Bruce approached, allowing him to stand next to Steve. The doctor proceeded to press a slew of electrodes against the soldier's chest, slip the blood pressure cuff around his bicep, and clip a pulse ox to his index finger.

"Hold still," he warned as he swabbed Steve's inner elbow with an alcohol wipe and inserted a needle connected to a cocktail of IV antibiotics. Then, he walked around the other side of bed and picked up one of two much larger needles dangling from the delivery system. Steve winced as one slid into his bicep and the second bit into his forearm.

Though he was thrilled Banner believed they had a solution, the doubt that had begun to gnaw at him earlier this morning was intensifying by the moment.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" he finally asked, unable to keep the query back any longer.

Tony threw up his hands and scowled at everyone in the room. "What's this? 'Ask stupid question day'?"

"He's allowed to be worried," Barton spoke up from the far end of the lab where he had taken a seat next to Coulson.

"What Tony is trying to say," Bruce interrupted before the scientist had a chance to speak, "is that we've run all possible variations on this with JARVIS' help. This is the closest we could get to the original formula, based on Erskine's notes. But nothing is certain. You have to be prepared for the possibility that this doesn't work at all," he finished, glancing pointedly at the soldier.

"So I'm no worse off than before. What have I got to lose?" Steve deadpanned lightly but his weak attempt at a joke was not well received.

Bruce pulled a sheet over Steve's bare chest and lowered the headrest of the bed. "Any final questions before we get started?"

Tony, who had been quietly standing by, started bouncing excitedly on his toes, recognizing the golden opportunity that Banner had unintentionally presented.

"What Bruce meant to say is…" he began, his voice unusually deep. As he stepped in front of the physicist, he cleared this throat and focused on speaking slowly, enunciating every syllable and pausing frequently, "this is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back."

Clint groaned as he realized where Stark was headed while Steve looked around in confusion, asking, "Why is he talking like that?"

Tony extended both hands, fists tightly clenched. "You take the blue pill," he flipped his left hand so the palm faced the ceiling and opened his fist, "the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe." He paused before repeating the same motion with his right hand. "You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

Thor raised a hand. "Rabbit-hole? I do not understand—"

Steve stared blankly at Tony. "Yeah, I don't either. Carroll never mentioned pills…"

"Stop torturing him, Stark," Coulson intervened.

"I can't help it," Tony returned, a genuine grin plastered across his face. "It's too easy."

Bruce shoved the inventor out of the way. "Ignore him, Steve. Did you have any final questions?"

When the soldier shook his head, Banner walked over to the delivery system and flipped a switch. Blood rapidly filled the large tube that trailed from Steve's upper arm and passed through the metal box perched on a tall wooden table before flowing back into his forearm.

"I do not understand how this will heal our Captain," Thor questioned after a moment, his head tilted to the side as he tried to make sense of Midigardian medicine.

"Rogers' blood is being introduced to the serum in the box," Tony simplified. "Hopefully saturating the blood with the serum will force it bond to the cells."

Thor nodded once but didn't look completely convinced.

"Why didn't you stick with the original procedure?" Natasha asked.

"One, we didn't want him to turn into Arnold Schwarzenegger. Two, this was the scenario that provided the greatest chance of success in our tests. Simply injecting it into bloodstream wasn't good enough."

"And you're—"

Tony picked a hammer from his toolbox and waved it threateningly at the audience. "So help me God—or Thor, I'm really not sure anymore—if anyone asks me if I'm sure this is going to work one more time, I will do some serious damage to their larynx."

"No need to get hostile—everyone's just concerned," Barton piped up, after deciding he was out hammer-wielding range.

"Be concerned about someone else's science," Stark retorted.

He turned back around as Banner asked Steve how he was doing.

"'M good," the Captain muttered as he shifted his right arm slightly.

"You feeling any pain or discomfort?"

The soldier hesitated.

Still holding the hammer, Stark pointed it at Steve. "That goes for you too. If I find out you lied to Bruce, I will…I will…" he turned to Clint. "What can I do to Spangles here that's not technically a crime against one's country?"

Barton frowned. "Why are you asking me?"

"Not much," Phil interjected quickly.

Tony glanced back at Steve, his face scrunched up as he thought. "I will lock you in a room and play _It's a Small World _for days on end. How about that?"

"What's _It's a Small World_?" Steve asked.

"_Don't_ ask," Banner intervened before Tony could ask JARVIS to play the refrain. "Now about the original question…"

"It burns kinda but it's nothing serious," Rogers answered truthfully. "I'm fine though. Please don't stop the procedure."

"We're not gonna stop the procedure," Stark rolled his eyes while Bruce gently shifted one of the needles.

"Better?"

Steve hesitated before responding, "A little."

Nodding smugly, Tony held out his fist. Bruce tapped it with his own before dragging a chair next to the bed. The other two Avengers took this as their cue to get comfortable in the padded chairs next to Clint and Coulson, the latter of whom was drumming his fingers against his knee, his foot shaking vivaciously back and forth.

"How long is this going to take?" the agent spoke up after only a few moments.

"You can't rush perfection," Stark fired back before Banner could answer.

"Awhile," Bruce responded with a deep frown directed at his fellow scientist. He motioned toward the box on Steve's right. "The system will continue to introduce his blood to the serum until the vial is empty. From the tests, we'd predict perhaps three to four hours, maybe longer if it doesn't take as quickly."

"Well then. JARVIS?"

The lights dimmed and a projector screen descended from the ceiling. Within seconds, the room was filled with the opening chords of an iconic 50s number and three people clad in yellow raincoats appeared on screen.

"_Singin' in the Rain? _Seriously?"

"It started as a 'Let's Introduce Steve to the Classics' session," Tony explained with a scowl, "so I was going to show _Psycho_ but Pepper insisted that this was a—and I quote—more wholesome movie that would better assist his recovery."

"Whipped," Clint snickered under his breath. He gasped as Natasha drove her elbow into his side.

"That was uncalled for!" he snapped at his partner.

"It's a nice gesture," she replied to Stark, clearly on both of their behalfs.

"Pepper thought so," Tony grumbled. He snapped his fingers and DUM-E rolled back into the room, carrying a large bowl of popcorn.

"Look alive Captain," he quipped, grabbing the bowl from the robot and patting it on the head. "Pepper thinks this is one of the greatest movies of the '50s."

* * *

Even though he thoroughly enjoyed this particular movie, Phil Coulson wasn't really watching the characters on screen. He was more concerned with Steve and the ongoing procedure. It didn't escape his notice that Steve's heart rate was increasing, though Bruce assured him it was a side-effect of the procedure, nothing more. Rogers also confirmed he was fine but that didn't mean much to the agent since he knew the soldier was prone to lying about his health. So he reluctantly turned back to the movie, keeping the monitoring equipment in his field of vision.

Within five minutes, he was bored again, having seen this musical many times with his younger sister, and began glancing around the room, watching everyone watching the film.

Natasha had taken the entire situation in stride and appeared to be actually enjoying the film, though she would glance at Rogers every so often just to make sure he was still breathing. Clint, well, if Natasha had only appeared to be watching, the archer was fully engaged—he was even humming the more famous numbers. Thor was one step above Barton and was fully enthralled with the tiny people moving around on screen performing quaint dances as he bellowed for more of the white fluffy morsels. Tony was pretending he wasn't interested but could be seen moving slightly to the melodies. Last but not least, Bruce was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed, though Phil was sure he was actively listening to every soft beat of the monitors.

Coulson slouched back in his seat and lifted his legs onto the ottoman in front of him. Out of habit, he glanced at the soldier, who hadn't said a word in twenty minutes, and sat bolt upright.

Beads of sweat were breaking out on Steve's forehead and his chest was heaving with exertion. His jaw was clamped shut and his eyes were flickering wildly from left to right while the veins in his muscular arms bulged as he tried to keep the trembling in his limbs to a minimum.

Phil jumped out of his chair and hurried over to the soldier, slapping Bruce's and Tony's shoulders as he passed. In his periphery, he saw the film screech to a halt at the same time the lights in the room clicked back on, revealing the flushed face of their captain.

Suddenly, a monitor shrilled as the soldier's heart rate became increasingly erratic.

"What's going on?" Tony demanded as he and Bruce took in Steve's rapid decline and hurried to examine his vitals.

"Nothin'," Steve wheezed.

Banner reached out and grabbed the Captain's wrist, taking his pulse for himself. "When did this start?"

The assassins were on their feet seconds later and were hovering behind the scientists, muttering incoherently…which may have been a blessing in disguise since Bruce was fairly sure he didn't want to hear what they were saying anyway.

"He was fine a few moments ago," Natasha responded at the same time Tony shouted, "Don't lie to us, Steve," in a tone that was both as agitated and as commanding as Bruce had ever heard.

"Hurts," the soldier gasped through clenched teeth.

"What hurts?" They both asked in unison.

"Serum," Steve managed before his eyes rolled back into his head and his body slacked against the bed while various vital monitors continued to shriek in the background.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I would love to know what you thought!**


	13. Chapter 13

_"Are you sure I'm ready for this?" Steve questioned, tugging uncomfortably at the lapels of his suit._

_"We'll never know until we try, now, will we?" Peggy Carter replied, lightly slapping away Steve's hands and adjusting his jacket one final time. She handed her overcoat to the coatroom attendant and linked her arm in Steve's, leading him into the Stork Club._

_They stepped into the main ballroom and discovered the hall's normally reserved interior had been abandoned for elaborate, patriotic decorations; red, white and blue bunting was strung around the room and a large American flag served as the backdrop for a four-piece band. The violinist, who was reading a worn newspaper while tuning his instrument, flipped the page, allowing Steve a quick glance at the headline which proclaimed "Red Skull Defeated!" in bold letters._

_The soldier squinted as a harsh spotlight landed on him and Peggy._

_"Captain America, everybody!" a familiar voice announced. Steve raised a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the light, and was able to see Bucky hopping onto the stage, dragging the microphone stand with him. His childhood friend started clapping and was quickly joined by everyone else in the club. One gentleman close to Steve whistled loudly and patted him on the shoulder, saying something along the lines of "you're a true American hero"._

_"C'mon up here!" Bucky shouted over the congratulatory ovation, motioning excitedly to the vacant dance floor. Then, he spun around, waving his arms wildly over his head, and the band immediately began a lively waltz._

_"He's not serious," Steve stammered as he realized what Bucky had planned._

_"It'll be fun!" Peggy tightened her grip on Steve's arm and pulled him onto the dance floor._

* * *

"Wilson!" Tony hollered as he gently pried open Rogers' eyes and checked for a reaction. The blue pupils contracted at the harsh light but were not responsive to other motion.

The lab door banged open and a shorter man carrying a black medical bag rushed in, followed by at least six more doctors.

Stark, who had had Dr. Wilson—the very best ED physician money could buy—on standby in case of an incident like this, stared at the additional doctors in confusion. "What—"

"You hired the best," Coulson responded to the unfinished question. He was standing along Steve's bedside and his eyes never left his hero's twitching form. "I brought in his team."

He glanced left and met Tony's confused stare for a brief second. "National security and all," he added with a wan smile.

Wilson, the shorter doctor, was trying to get to his coding patient but the concerned Avengers were blocking his path. "I need all of you to back up and give us room!" he commanded, throwing his shoulder into Barton. The archer's hand instinctively curled into a fist, but he managed to suppress his reflex and took a large step backwards.

The other six doctors scurried through the hole Clint had created, shoving the other Avengers out of the way in the process.

"BP is 140/90," one of the female doctors announced, reading off the screen. "Heart rate 120 bpm."

"Temp is 105," another assistant volunteered.

"He's not responsive," a third doctor said, shining the pen light into Steve's eyes.

"Get him started on adenosine," Wilson instructed, raking his eyes over the screens. "We need to get him off the serum," he shouted, his statement directed at Stark and Banner.

"JARVIS?" Tony asked as he flipped open the lid of the delivery machine to examine the vial of serum.

A harsh choking sound filled the room and Tony whipped around to see Steve struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving as he worked to bring oxygen into his lungs. Before Wilson could act, one of the doctors slipped a mask over Rogers' face. The soldier stilled slightly as oxygen flowed into his system, the mask fogging with signs of life.

"There is approximately five percent serum left, sir," JARVIS announced.

"How long?"

"Two or three minutes."

"Not for another two or three minutes," Stark replied to the doctor, slamming the lid of the machine closed.

"He may not have that long," Wilson commented without looking up from the charts he was flipping through.

"We may not get another chance at this," Tony returned grimly.

* * *

_The applause died down as the couple walked onto the tiled dance floor and faced each other._

_"The waltz is easy," Peggy murmured, gently moving Steve's right hand to just beneath her left shoulder blade before placing her hand on his upper arm. She slipped her right hand into his and extended their arms until they were almost parallel to the floor._

_"Now, step backwards with your right foot," she whispered, moving forward with her left at the same time._

_"Step back with your left," she instructed, seeing Steve's brow furrow with concentration._

_"Bring your right foot next to your left." He did so, accidentally stepping on the very tip of her penny heels._

_"I'm sorry!" he whispered, looking at her with wide, apologetic eyes._

_"It's all right Captain," she consoled him, patting his upper arm._

* * *

The doctor huffed loudly and whirled around, waving his hands wildly to get updates from his team.

"His heart rate isn't coming down."

"BP normalizing but still hypertensive."

"Pulse ox at 92."

"Three percent remaining," JARVIS recited.

As the Avengers watched, the soldier began to spasm more aggressively, the momentary burst of calm from the increased oxygen apparently over.

"The adenosine isn't working," a doctor shouted, staring at her iPhone which had just clicked past one minute.

"We have to wait. Try to get his temp under control," Wilson ordered.

Without warning, the temperature in the room dropped noticeably.

"Thank you, JARVIS," Bruce replied to the ceiling. He wanted nothing more than to help but knew he wasn't qualified to be assisting in a procedure of this importance. So he reluctantly stood back and allowed the professionals to work on his friend.

"One percent."

* * *

_In the background, the music swelled and other couples ventured onto the dance floor, stepping easily into the beat. Steve let out the breath he had been holding when he realized he was no longer the sole object of everyone's attention._

_"Now, those were the basic steps," Peggy spoke up, bringing his focus back to their dance. "We just turn slightly and keep repeating them."_

_She continued to count as they kept waltzing. By the middle of the song, Steve had became comfortable enough with the three movements that, after watching a neighboring couple, he dropped his hand to her lower back and gently dipped her._

_When he pulled her upright, they were standing so close to each other that he could smell her flowery shampoo. She was smiling at him, praising him for mastering the box step, her eyes shining in the soft lighting. He was just about to tell her how beautiful she looked in her red dress when he was interrupted by a soft beeping._

_"Do you hear that?" he looked around anxiously._

_"Hear what?" she asked between murmured counts._

* * *

Without speaking, Clint reached out and took Natasha's hand and, for the second time in their history, the Russian didn't bother to slap him away.

Thor stared in confusion at the scene around him, his lips moving silently to the words of an Asgardian prayer.

Coulson was staring at Steve, looking downright devastated at being pushed out of the way, but, even from a distance, he was shouting encouragements at his hero.

The wailing of the monitors ratcheted up.

"We can't wait any longer."

Wilson was reaching for Steve's right arm when a soft ding resonated through the room.

"Delivery completed," JARVIS announced.

"Let's get to work!" the lead doctor exclaimed, hurriedly pulling the needles from Steve's flesh.

"Still not in sinus rhythm."

"Temp's holding steady."

"We need to shock him."

While one doctor replaced Steve's clear oxygen mask with purple oxygen bag, another raced into the hall and returned with a crash cart. She grabbed the bottle of gel and applied a liberal amount to both paddles while a third doctor flipped on the defibrillator.

"Paddles," Wilson demanded.

* * *

_Steve shook his head, thinking he had imagined the sound, and attempted to continue waltzing. Despite his efforts, the sharp beeps increased in intensity, becoming louder and louder, until they drowned out the band's music._

_He stopped dancing and squinted at the ceiling, the supposed origin of the noise. After a moment, he felt a soft hand on the side of his face and saw Peggy staring at him, her face exuding concern._

_"What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing," he lied._

_All of the sudden, the room started shaking. Steve was sure he was imagining that too until he saw couples stop dancing, the women clinging to the men to stay balanced in their heels. The trembling increased in intensity, jarring the decorations loose from the walls and knocking over the refreshments table. _

_In that instant, panic flowed through the room, eliciting screams from its occupants who raced toward the exits._

_Steve glanced back at the ceiling, which, he quickly realized, was no longer stationary. Black waves radiated from the exact center, crashing into the walls and dripping toward the floor. Once they hit the ground, they oozed inward, enveloping people, instruments and decorations in their deadly path._

_Taking only a second to observe the chaos, Steve grabbed Peggy's hand and was sprinting toward the exit when an incredible pain lanced through his heart, dropping him to his knees._

* * *

The soldier's back arched, his entire body lifting from the bed, as electricity flew into his chest.

The doctors stared intently at the heart rate monitor, watching as the peaks continued to race across the screen.

"Charging!"

Electricity hissed between the metal surfaces as Wilson rubbed the paddles together. The second doctor placed the purple mask over Steve's face and pumped at the bag, slowly forcing air into his lungs.

"CLEAR!"

Everyone pulled back as Wilson thrust the paddles into contact with Steve's skin for a second time. The soldier jumped again but his heart rate continued to beat rapidly and unevenly.

"300 Joules." A female doctor squeezed some more gel onto the paddles as a male doctor twisted the knob on the defibrillator.

"CLEAR!"

* * *

_The shock came again, this time more acute and blinding than before. It was so intense it completely obliterated Steve's ability to move, to breathe, to think—there was nothing but the pain._

_Peggy was yanking on his arm, her eyes wide with fright. "Steve! Steve, what's wrong?"_

_The sharp pain slowly dissipated, sending an odd tingling sensation to his limbs as it did so but allowing him to pull himself to his feet._

"'_S go!" he rasped, grabbing her hand again._

_They dodged a falling butting and were inches from the door when something snagged Steve's ankle, keeping him from moving forward. __He glanced back and saw tendrils of darkness wrapping themselves around his leg. He viciously shook his lower limb but was unable to loose their hold._

"_Go Peggy!" he shouted as the strands engulfed his knees, his hips, his waist._

"_I'm not leaving you!" she hollered. She stepped backward, her hands reaching toward his lower body to help free him._

"_It's not your choice," Steve muttered, shoving her out the door and managing to slam it closed before she could argue._

_He tried to extract himself from the sticky goo but his attempts were useless: the more he moved, the more quickly it wrapped around him. Finally, it reached his arms, pinning them to his side and keeping him from struggling further._

_He heard her hollering his name, pounding on the wooden barrier, as the darkness closed over his head._

* * *

"Sitrep," Director Fury snapped as he stormed into Stark Tower brushing past Coulson, who had met him in the foyer. The agent quickly turned on his heels and hurried to keep up with the angered Director.

"It's not good sir. They were able to regulate his heart rate, but his temperature is still over 102 degrees."

"The serum?"

"It appears the serum took. The blood tests they ran are showing remarkable improvement in brain and organ function and his bruises are healing visibly."

"Yet he's still unconscious?"

"As of five minutes ago, yes."

"I want to talk to these doctors," Fury announced. He stopped so quickly Phil almost crashed into him. "And you, _Agent _Coulson, we will be having a long conversation when this is all over about your involvement with this…unauthorized activity."

"Very good, sir," Coulson bowed his head in feigned shame, even though he would never be sorry he had taken an extended break to be by Captain America's side through his procedure. Stark had been adamant about performing the procedure in Stark Tower since it was self-sustaining and had the best security on the East Coast with five Avengers present though Coulson had overheard a hushed discussion between Banner and Stark that implied Fury hadn't exactly agreed to the idea and had wanted more tests run by his scientists before the procedure was actually performed.

"The doctors are reviewing results in this room," he motioned across the hall, still looking at his shoes.

Fury shook his head and walked off without another word.

Coulson shrugged and walked back into Steve's room. The soldier had been moved to an unoccupied room on the same floor as the lab but was still lying in the gurney, his skin a horrible shade of grey. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and he was surrounded by more machines than before.

"What'd ol' Eyepatch have to say?" Tony asked as Phil entered. The scientist was sitting at Steve's side, surrounded by Barton, Banner and Romanov. The god of thunder was nowhere in sight.

"Not much," the agent winced as he imagined the tongue-lashing he would be receiving. He walked closer to the temporary bed and, after a quick pause, brushed Steve's sweaty bangs out of his face, feeling the heat radiating off his hero's skin. "How is he?"

"Heart rate's stable, pulse steady, O2 stats reasonable but he's still unconscious."

"You don't think he's…" Coulson trailed off, unable to voice his concern that Rogers would be in a coma for another seventy years.

Tony didn't respond, shaking his head sadly as he stared at the bed. Bruce took pity on the worried agent and leaned forward in his chair. "Right now, we don't know what to think," he said gently. "We're hoping for the best."

_Right_…Coulson thought. _The best._

The whole room jumped as the door behind them flew open, smacking harshly into the wall.

"Stark!" Fury shouted as he stomped into the room.

Tony took a deep breath, a scowl spreading across his face and freezing the permanent look of disgust. He stood and ever so slowly turned to face the Director.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice annoyingly high-pitched.

Fury's glare practically bore holes into the inventor in front of him. His hand twitched at his side, causing the Avengers to reach for their own weapons.

"We agreed. To wait," he said slowly, his voice no louder than a whisper.

The soft beeping of Steve's heart monitor increased in intensity and a muffled groan escaped his lips as he shifted positions but didn't wake.

"You're disturbing him," Coulson snapped in a harsh whisper.

Fury pointed at Stark and motioned toward the door. With a dramatic eye roll, Tony reluctantly followed the Director into the hallway.

"_You_ agreed to wait," the inventor shot back the minute the door was closed behind them. "I never did. It was too risky to hold off for much longer."

"There were too many variables—"

"We accounted for all of them."

"In one night?"

"They say two heads are better than one…"

Fury stepped forward until he was inches away from Stark. "You could have killed him."

"But we didn't." Though Tony was uncomfortable being this close to the Director, he refused to let it show on his face. He straightened up and returned Fury's steely glare.

"From the report I just read, that's up for discussion," Fury leaned in even closer until Tony could feel the Director's warm breath on his face.

"He'll pull through," Stark returned with false bravado, his words ringing hollow to his own ears.

"He'd better or I _will _prosecute you to the full extent of the law."

Tony pulled a face. "If you're done making idle threats, I'm going to look after Rogers since your med school newbies clearly have no idea what they're doing."

"I would check that attitude, Stark…" Fury warned.

Tony's eyes flashed dangerously but, before he could respond, Fury's cell phone rang. The Director checked the display and swept back into Steve's room, leaving Tony staring at the back of his billowing coat. The inventor quickly snapped out of his stupor and stepped into the soldier's room in time to hear Coulson say, "This is really—"

"Not now," Fury raised a hand to silence his agent.

"We have a situation," he spoke directly to the two assassins. "One of our techs just cracked the encryption on the off-shore bank. Only two distinct IP addresses accessed the account in question: one to deposit the money, one to withdraw. They were able to track the IP from the deposit back to its host computer and have a lock on its current position."

Clint and Natasha were moving towards the door before Fury had finished his sentence. "Where?" they called over their shoulders.

"Check your phones."

The two devices chirped in unison sending both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents scrambling for their cells.

"We're on it," Barton announced to Fury while Natasha began arranging transport. They dashed from the room, the Director hot on their heels, leaving the door swinging back in forth in their wake.

Stark glanced around at the almost empty room. "They left me," he realized.

"I'll watch over him," Banner promised while Coulson nodded his agreement. "You go get this bastard."

Tony did a double take as the curse word slipped out of the mild-mannered scientist's mouth. "Why Brucie, I don't think I've heard you swear."

"Ya learn something every day," Banner replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. "Now go. Before they leave without you."

"Yes sir," Tony threw Bruce a mock salute and raced after Hawkeye and the Black Widow.

* * *

A long-haired, elderly man was sitting nervously in his dilapidated hotel room, flicking absentmindedly through the television channels. His long fingers tapped against the black plastic remote as he anxiously awaited news from his latest contact.

After his base had been destroyed, he had followed the contingency plan and headed to the United States—under a false alias of course—to put Plan B into motion. Since he hadn't heard back from Eldridge, he could only assume the operation had been compromised. Though Eldridge had assured him his laptop had the strongest encryption algorithms, the leader was certain that annoying agency S.H.I.E.L.D. was stripping it to the hard drive looking for leads. That combined with the news that the compound had been compromised was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Time was running short; he needed to set this plan into action. And fast.

There was a large crash in the hallway followed by some surly swearing. Before his brain could process the sound, he was already diving across his bed, his fingers reaching for the nightstand. He heard a soft twanging and an arrow buried itself into the soft fabric next to his hand, sending feathers flying in all directions.

He gulped and looked over his shoulder to see a red-and-gold metal suit standing in his doorway, one arm fully extended. Just to his left, a brown-haired man reached behind him and notched a second arrow with practiced confidence. The man whipped his head left as he heard the window click open and a red-headed woman in a tight black body suit slid lithely inside. She pulled a gun from her belt and aimed it at his head.

His fingers still brushing the nightstand drawer, he flipped onto his back to see the palm of the metal suit glowing a pure white and emitting a metallic whine that overpowered the sound of a bowstring being stretched taught.

"Go ahead," Iron Man growled at the leader of the organization that wanted Captain America dead and cocked his head at the nightstand where he suspected a weapon was hidden.

"Make our day."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


	14. Chapter 14

The elderly leader gulped audibly and raised his hands, scooting away from the nightstand.

"Iron Man," he nodded towards the metal suit. "Black Widow," he tilted his head toward the woman silhouetted in the window. "Hawkeye," he curtly motioned towards the arrow sticking out of his bed.

"What can I do for you today?"

"You can call off the hit on Captain America, for starters," the metal voice of Iron Man replied. "Then maybe move to another hotel cos seriously, I crunched six roaches just walking up one flight of stairs. I thought evil geniuses were supposed to stay in five-star hotels with their own personal butlers and all the steak and caviar they could eat."

"It's not so easy to afford all that when your home has been burned to the ground."

"I can't say I'm sorry considering what you did to the Captain."

"He stole my life's work," the older man shrugged. "What was I to do?"

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Iron Man lifted one arm, the palm glowing with white light, and the evil mastermind struggled to keep the fear off his face.

"Not trying to kill Captain America would have been a good start."

The man grinned ferally. "You misunderstand my intentions. Killing him will be a last result. I only want my…item…returned."

The three Avengers instantly picked up on the change in tense.

"You've hired someone else," Clint said evenly, his face impassive.

"It wouldn't be any fun if I confirmed that statement, now, would it?"

Natasha loaded a bullet into the chamber of her handgun. "Not for you, at least. I, however, will have a grand time getting you to reveal the assassin's name."

The elderly man didn't look amused. "You Americans have your laws, your rights, your ideals. You cannot kill me—not without a fair trial."

"Kill?" Natasha scoffed. "That would be too merciful."

The man blinked owlishly but said nothing.

"Let's clear something up," Iron Man said. "There is no possible way you break into my Tower and kill Captain America—the odds of you being successful are astronomical. There's no way you're that stupid."

The man laughed. "And that is why your system will fail, Tony Stark. Your arrogance blinds you to your building's weaknesses. You must know this is true or else you would not be so concerned about my plans."

"I don't like leaving things to chance," Iron Man countered.

"Threatening to kill him isn't going to work," Hawkeye spoke up, having silently been analyzing the man's actions and guarded words. "He's not afraid to die—he'd rather be a martyr for his cause than to give up its secrets."

Natasha recognized the truth behind her partner's statement and quickly switched tactics. "Let's take him back to headquarters then," she holstered her weapon and pulled out her handcuffs. "Stark, how difficult would it be to manufacture a document that details his full cooperation with S.H.I.E.L.D. and any other federal agency in exchange for a lighter sentence?"

"Child's play. Leaking it to press will be even easier," he looked pointedly at the man. "I wonder what the rest of your group is going to say when they hear you narc-ed on them…Can't imagine that will go over well when you're all sharing a wing in county."

"You wouldn't," the man spat, emotion coloring his face for the first time.

"Oh, trust us. We would."

The elderly man's glare was deadly.

"With that on the table, let's review our options," Clint began. He nodded to Natasha who pulled a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue cell phone from her belt and tossed it onto the bed. "You contact your man and arrange a meet to discuss new developments in Stark Tower's security or we run that story. You tip him off in any way and we'll unleash the Widow." He paused for dramatic effect. "Then, we'll run that story."

The man stared at the device lying on the brightly colored comforter but made no motion to pick it up.

"If that wasn't incentive enough, I can see Hawkeye's getting a little tired holding that bowstring back so…I suggest you hurry," Iron Man added.

Noticing the man's confident front faltering slightly, Stark turned to the Widow. "How should we title the article, Romanov?"

"I think 'Self-serving bastard who sold out his organization to save his own ass' has a nice ring to it."

"JARVIS?"

"I am writing it as we speak."

The man's stoic exterior lasted for all of sixty seconds after that declaration. He deflated noticeably, his shoulders rounding as he slouched against the headrest.

"Wait," he sighed and reached for the phone.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, the dead silence was interrupted by a loud squelching.

"Number nine," Tony grumbled as he lifted up his boot to reveal the remains of a cockroach smeared across the wood flooring.

Natasha didn't even look up from the weapon she had systemically stripped down and was now cleaning. The elderly man, who continually refused to reveal his name, was sitting in the far corner, handcuffed to a sturdy wooden chair. Clint appeared to be casually leaning against the wall though Natasha knew he was listening intently to the feeds from microphones he had placed in the hallway.

"It's showtime," he whispered suddenly. He straightened up and reached for his bow seconds before a key could be heard scraping the inside of the lock. The repulsors in Tony's hand began to silently glow and Natasha pulled a second handgun from her belt, training it on the entrance.

The door creaked open and a dark-haired man entered, his gun moving from left to right as he cleared the space in front of him. As he passed, Clint quietly stepped out from behind the door and rested the barrel of his P30 behind the hitman's ear.

"Welcome to the party, pal," he quipped.

The man slowly raised his hands into the air, his weapon dangling from his index finger by the trigger guard.

"We've got him," Natasha muttered into her comm as she disarmed the hitman. Then, she pulled a set of handcuffs from her belt, tossed them towards her partner and kept her weapons trained on the enemy until Barton managed to cuff his hands behind his back.

"You betrayed me!" the newcomer hissed at the elderly man while Clint attempted to Mirandize him.

"I didn't have a choice," the man spat back. "Tell him!" he turned to Iron Man, his eyes beseeching.

"Oh, he had a choice," Tony walked over and pulled the older man upright.

"You won't get away with this," the assassin continued, lunging toward his employer.

"At this point, I'd worry less about what he did and start figuring out how you're going to survive in the pen," Stark offered helpfully while Barton tightened his grip on the incensed man.

"You do realize no one actually calls it that," Clint responded.

"Semantics," Tony lifted one shoulder indifferently.

The Avengers led their suspects to the door where two armed agents had magically appeared, waiting to take the men into custody.

"Yippee ki-yay, m—" Clint began as he handed the younger man to Agent Ward but was interrupted by the hitman who was bellowing far worse obscenities at the elderly man.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Really, Barton?"

"It's a gift," Barton replied, sliding his weapon back into its holster and stepping out of the doorway to allow the crime scene technicians into the room.

As they watched S.H.I.E.L.D. drag the struggling men down the hallway, Tony's face contorted into a scowl. "Officers, take him away," he shouted, even though the men were already out of earshot.

He turned back to Clint and Natasha and flipped up his faceplate. "That was overkill, wasn't it? I mean, Barton had that really great line and I wanted to slip one in myself," he waited for their input and winced when he didn't get any. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I rushed it."

He thought for another minute.

"I do love it when a plan comes together?" he offered less confidently than before.

Natasha grimaced and patted Stark on the shoulder. "Maybe next time."

Refusing to concede, Stark scrunched up his face and racked his brain for a suitable quote.

"Home, James?"

"Give it up, Stark," Hawkeye said, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "You and I both know you can't win."

"Them's fightin' words, Legloas," Stark's eyes narrowed, his palm repulsor glowing slightly.

Surprise flashed over Barton's face and he quickly reached for an arrow.

Natasha stared at the ceiling, begging for patience, and stepped between the two of them. "I'd stop before Coulson revokes your Steve-visiting privileges."

"It's my tower," Stark snapped unhappily.

Natasha tilted her head to one side and fixed Tony with an amused look. "You _really_ think that's going to stop him?"

Tony thought for another moment. "Probably not," he replied sourly.

The light disappeared from his palm and he extended his hand to Clint. "Another time?"

Hawkeye cautiously shook Iron Man's hand, still leaning back slightly to make a quick dive if necessary. "Sure?" he questioned uncertainly.

"Much better." Natasha patted them both on the shoulder patronizingly. "Now, let's get out of here. We have more important places to be."

* * *

_Beep._

It was dark. He couldn't really feel his arms and legs, but the feeling wasn't worrying.

_Beep. Beep._

In fact, he wasn't all that concerned about it. The darkness was quiet…peaceful.

_He's waking up._

He could get used to this…Wait. Who was waking up?

_B-b-beeeep._

Him? Was he supposed to be waking up? Had he been asleep?

_B-b-b-beeeppp! B-b-b-b-eeeepp!_

Where was he? And why was it dark!?

_Hold him down!_

Who? Him? Was he moving? He didn't feel like he was moving…

_B-b-b-beeeep! B-b-b-beeeep! B-b-b-beeeeeep!_

Then he felt pressure on his wrists and ankles and he reacted, throwing himself against the people holding him down. He was probably in enemy territory. He needed to get out. Now!

_S'okay Steve! You're all right!_

Like hell he was! He needed to get out of here! He thrashed harder against the remarkably strong forces pinning him to the bed.

_Please do not exert yourself Captain! The healers are approaching!_

He paused for a split second as he recognized the old-fashioned dialect that belonged to only one person.

"Thor?" he croaked without opening his eyes.

"FRIEND ROGERS!"

Steve winced as the loud tone drove nails into his already pounding head, now understanding why he hadn't been able to break free from Thor's incredible strength.

There was a sharp smack and an undignified cry of pain. "Lady Widow. I do not—"

"Keep it down Thor."

The Asgardian's next words were much quieter. "You've awakened, Friend Rogers."

There were some muffled footsteps—soft sneakers if Steve had to guess—then an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Captain Rogers?"

With great concentration, Steve managed to crack one eye open; it was a monumental task considering his eyelids felt like they were made of heavy metal. He stared at the blurry figures in front of him, managing to recognize Thor's blond hair to his right and a white lab coat to his left. He blinked lethargically and the world fell into focus.

"Welcome back, Captain," a male doctor said. "How are you feeling?"

He still couldn't feel much of anything, but from the general complaining when he tried to shift even slightly, he was sure that wasn't going to last long.

"S're," Steve decided after a second.

"Well that's to be expected, Captain. You've been asleep—"

Panic shot through Steve's system as he flew upright in bed, ignoring the pain in his chest and lower back as he did so. Someone else had begun a sentence in that exact manner and the results had literally stunned him into silence.

He was no longer lying in the hospital room—he was standing in the middle of Times Square, his retinas burning as the bright lights flashed advertisements for things he didn't recognize and his ears aching with the cacophonous sound of screeches and clashes. His unfocused stare had eventually landed on the man dressed in a black trench coat.

_You've been asleep Cap. For almost seventy years. _

Seventy years. Everyone he had ever known was gone: the Howling Commandos, Colonel Phillips, Howard. Peggy. He couldn't handle sleeping for another seven decades, not after he had grown to trust another team.

"Rogers!" someone shouted, snapping him back to the present. During his flashback, he had apparently reached out and grabbed the lapels of the doctor's coat, pulling the man's face inches from his own. Breathing hard, Steve cleared his throat and managed to mumble, "…Year's it?"

Embarrassment clouded the doctor's face. "It's 2013," he gasped in Rogers' tight grip but he made no move to pull away. "I apologize Captain. You've only been asleep for four days."

"Four…days?" Steve repeated as he glanced toward Natasha and Thor for confirmation. Despite looking exhausted, they didn't look starkly aged from the last time he had seen them. Natasha shifted slightly so he could see Clint who had pushed two chairs together and wedged himself under the arms. Even though the lines of tension were absent from his face during sleep, it helped corroborate the doctor's statement.

"And a long four days it has been while we waited for you to wake from your slumber," the god expounded while the female Avenger just nodded.

"Four days?" he repeated.

Natasha reached into a small purse and pulled out a cell phone. She tapped a few buttons and held up the device so Steve could see the digital calendar with today's date circled in red. Sure enough, the day marked was in the same year he had fallen asleep.

He released the doctor, who fell back into a chair, his face a shade of blue. "Sorry," he mumbled to the wheezing physician.

"Quite alright," the man rasped as he straightened out his lab coat.

Steve caught sight of the odd-looking machine in the corner and instantly remembered the reason he had been unconscious in the first place.

He glanced at his hands, taking in every detail from the tiny muscles firing as he moved his fingers to the deep lines in his palm. Then, he clenched his fists feeling the sheer power race from his shoulders down to his fingertips. Finally, he put a hand on his rock-hard pectorals, noting the smooth, unblemished skin where bruises had been just a few days ago.

"So…" he began with a goofy grin. "It worked?"

"Yes, Captain Rogers," the doctor said, standing to his full height. "The re-introduction of the serum was a success."

A smile spread over Steve's entire face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, until it looked like his cheeks were going to split in two. He glanced around the room, quickly realizing two of his teammates were absent.

"Where are Tony and Bruce?"

"Pepper stopped by last night and took Stark and Banner back to the Tower for a decent meal and some uninterrupted sleep," Natasha explained. Since the Cap had gone through enough in the past week, she left out the part where Pepper had had to threaten Tony with some very creative things before he agreed. Banner hadn't wanted to impose, but since he looked as if he was going to literally collapse, convincing him to come back to Stark Tower hadn't taken much work at all.

"Oh," Steve felt oddly disappointed that the two men who had slaved for so long to achieve this feat weren't there to celebrate their accomplishment.

"Don't worry," Natasha quickly added as she saw the soldier's expression sadden. "I'm sure Pepper won't be able to keep Tony away for long."

And just like that, the mega-watt grin was back in place because Steve knew Natasha was right. And then, when they got back, he could try to express in words what their accomplishment truly meant to him, even though he had never been that great at public speaking. The Captain America spiel was just learning lines. Speaking from the heart was an entirely different story—a skill he had yet to master. But somehow, he had to try. They had literally given him everything Erskine and Stark Senior had the first time.

The pure joy radiating off the younger man was so infectious, Doctor Wilson found himself smiling as he grabbed a penlight and shone it directly into Steve's eyes. But the soldier didn't care—he willingly put up with the physical examination, allowing himself to be poked and prodded, knowing at the end of it, he was no longer just Steve Rogers, underfed boy who wasn't healthy enough to be drafted; he was once again Captain America, boy from Brooklyn who was making a difference.

* * *

_Epilogue:_

"I need you and your crew at the helipad in thirty," Director Fury snapped over the phone line.

"Can I ask what this is about, sir?" Steve Rogers asked as he began assembling his equipment.

"There's this idiot flying around on a hang glider throwing pumpkin bombs. What does he call himself?" Steve pulled the phone away from his ear as Fury shouted at his agents.

"The Green Goblin, sir," he heard a young agent respond meekly.

"Yes, this Goblin idiot. Think you and your team can handle it?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good."

There was a long pause during which Steve wasn't sure if he should hang up or wait for more orders.

"Captain?" Fury finally spoke up.

"Yes, sir?"

"It's good to have you back."

Then, the line clicked dead and Steve stared at the phone. If he wasn't mistaken, that was a compliment of sorts. Or, as close to a compliment as he was going to get from the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Over the last seven days, Rogers had endured weapons' testing and psychological evaluations—the standard for any operative that had been seriously injured, Clint and Natasha informed him.

During this time, he had been forced to sit out the case to avoid any biases in the evidence or reports but he had learned from Clint, Natasha and Stark that Eldridge had signed a full confession that enumerated the actions of the elderly man, whose name was still unknown; he was not registered in any national system and was found without any sort of identification. The passport he used for airport security had disappeared as well, but the name had been flagged in case any of his associates tried to use it again.

The second hitman, David Webb, was a much more prominent figure, symbolizing just how desperately this group wanted their Package back or Captain America dead. Eldridge's testimony, combined with the statements from the twenty other members of the organization, was more than enough evidence to incriminate the elderly leader and Webb.

Yet, as their pasts were thoroughly analyzed, no connection could be found between any of the suspects and the robot attack that had set this entire debacle in motion—none of them had the expertise or access to materials to achieve such a feat. This realization was not sitting well with Tony who believed coincidences were fewer and farther between than women who refused to sleep with him. After a few days of intense analysis that resulted in…nothing, even Stark had reluctantly stopped searching for the nonexistent link between the two, leaving it up to S.H.I.E.L.D. to continue pursuing all possible leads.

Finally, one grueling week after the reintroduction of the serum, Rogers had been cleared for active duty.

Then, there had been a span of three days where_ nothing _had gone wrong in the _entire_ city of New York. No bank robberies, no attacks from alien planets, no cats stuck in trees: absolutely nothing that required the Avengers' assistance.

Just when Steve was going to go Section Eight from the endless stream of movies and pop culture references he had to endure from Tony, Fury had called for a private meeting.

Which left him standing in an empty office wondering how he going to locate everyone. He assumed Tony and Bruce were somewhere in the Tower but he hadn't seen Romanov, Barton, or Thor since the informal party Pepper had thrown for his reinstatement.

"Find everyone in half an hour. Swell," he muttered to himself as he grabbed his neatly folded suit out of the briefcase he had brought to Stark Tower…Just in case.

"I think I may be able to help you with that, Captain," JARVIS' voice filtered into the room, startling Rogers.

He whirled around and glanced at the ceiling. "Um…that'd be great," he said after a pause.

"What would you like me to say?"

"Meet in the helipad in thirty?" he replied as a question, unsure if that was the response JARVIS was looking for. It was the type of message he usually sent: No frills. Just the facts.

There was a beat of silence. "If I may, sir, every team should have a catchphrase…"

"I don't understand what that means," Steve asked, staring curiously at the ceiling.

"The exact definition is 'a phrase in popular use, serving as a slogan for a group or movement'. For example, 'Hulk Smash' has become the catchphrase for Dr. Banner's alter-ego."

"So you think we need a catchphrase?" Steve clarified.

He could almost hear JARVIS shrugging. "I believe if you do not create one relatively soon, Mr. Stark will. And I do not believe you will be thrilled with the outcome."

Steve shuddered as he thought of Tony deciding the phrase by which their team would come to be known. No, he had to come up with one first.

Unconsciously scrunching up his face, the soldier thought for a long moment. 'All for One and One for All' was the first thing that popped into his mind, but he rejected it since it was already unique to the Three Musketeers. They needed something with 'Avengers' actually in it… Avengers Attack? Avengers Unite?

Then a smile spread slowly across his face.

"JARVIS?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think about 'Avengers Assemble'?"

The AI repeated the phrase a few times before answering. "Captain Rogers, I do believe you have picked a winner."

* * *

**And that's the end of _Identity Crisis. _Thank you to everyone who alerted, favorited, reviewed or just read: your support was absolutely amazing, especially for an author who had never written a multi-chapter Avengers story before.**

**If you could spare a second, I'd love to know what you thought on your way out.**

**Until next time,**

**usa123**


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